


Captivated

by BellatrixLives



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, F/M, Murder, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 50,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1503389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellatrixLives/pseuds/BellatrixLives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail Hobbs is being held captive by Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  She doesn't know what he expects from her, but she knows her only chance of survival is to play the game.  If survival is worth it remains to be seen.</p>
<p>Picking up from episode 12 (Relevés) of season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Abigail sits in a large, porcelain, claw foot tub, with silent tears streaming down her face. The warm water is enveloping her, but doing nothing to soothe her.

 _He's going to kill me,_  she thinks, her heart thudding.  _He's going to torture me first, and then he_  is  _going to kill me_.

Hopelessness swells inside her, a darkness that starts at her core and spreads until she is completely consumed.

_There is no way out._

She swallows, her throat suddenly dry.

_There is one way… a way out on my own terms._

Abigail's tears slow and a small, but smug, smirk tugs at her lips. She spreads her arms out and curls her fingers around the edge of the tub.

_Goodbye, Hannibal._

She submerges herself completely into the tub and takes a deep breath, choking as the water fills her lungs. It hurts more than she thought it would, but Abigail fights to keep herself under, inhaling yet again.

Blackness blurs the edge of her vision and she slips towards unconsciousness, her most recent memories playing before her eyes.

**~**

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you in this life," Hannibal said sadly, caressing her cheek with his thumb.

Abigail's breath came in short jagged gasps as he pulled her into a hug. Despite her fear of him, Abigail had clung on, desperately hoping Hannibal's solid form would tether her to this world.

She felt a sharp prick in her side, and the next thing she knew, she was waking up in her parent's basement, tied to a chair with a gag in her mouth.

Her eyes darted around the small space; panic seized her as she saw Hannibal standing beneath a single dangling ligtbulb.

He had a regretful expression on his face as he studied her.

"I had hoped you would not wake," he said, approaching her and kneeling by her side. "I do not have any more tranquilizer with me."

Abigail's eyes widened as she looked down and watched him pull a needle from her arm. The needle connected to a long tube, which ran to a bag of blood…  _her blood._

Hannibal sat the bag down on the ground next to two more bags of blood.

"I'm afraid this is going to hurt," he sighed, then reached into a small black satchel on the floor and withdrew a scalpel.

Abigail shook her head frantically, the movement made her dizzy and she wondered if it was from the lack of blood.

"You've given me no choice," Hannibal said, grabbing hold of her head and forcing her to turn away from him.

She tried to watch him out of her peripheral vision, her blue eyes almost bugging out to see what he was doing. Abigail caught a silver flash of the scalpel coming down and cried out, but the gag muffled the sound.

White-hot pain scorched the left side of her head and she felt the steady stream of blood as it ran down her face.

Hannibal released her head and stepped in front of her.

"Such a pity," he said sadly, "you have adorable ears."

Then he held her left ear up in front of her so she could see, and Abigail fainted.

The next time she woke she was in the trunk of a car, her hands tied in front of her.

She's not sure how long she had been there, or how long they traveled after she woke, but eventually the car came to a stop. Abigail heard a door slam and then footsteps come around the back of the car. As the trunk unlatched she prepared for action.

When the trunk lid opened and revealed Hannibal standing over her, Abigail kicked her legs out trying to push him away.

Her efforts were ineffectual and he had easily pushed past her flying legs and grabbed hold of her.

"Can you walk?" he asked as he pulled her from the trunk.

As soon as she was on her feet, Abigail pushed into Hannibal knocking him back, and tried to make a run for it. She recognized his house and was thankful to know where she was and which direction would be best to run in. Unfortunately, another wave of dizziness had hit her and she tripped, landing hard on the rough pavement.

"You're not going anywhere, Abigail. I have far too many plans for you."

Hannibal was towering over her in seconds, and sighed as he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the house. He took her to the second story level and set her down in the corner of a large, ornately decorated bathroom. The centerpiece of which was a large claw foot tub.

He started the bath water and then crouched before Abigail and unbound her hands and removed her gag.

"You need to get cleaned up," he instructed. "Can you do it yourself, or do you require assistance?"

Abigail shivered uncomfortably.

"I can do it."

"Excellent. I will be just down the hall," he said, a warning in his tone. "There is no way out of here, Abigail, and it would be foolish to try to find one."

She looked up, meeting his dark eyes, and knew that he was referring to more than just the bathroom.

Hannibal was next door in the adjoining bedroom when he heard the water sloshing noisily in the bathroom.

  **~**

At first he doesn't think anything of it, but as the thrashing continues he decides he better inspect. He throws open the door only to see Abigail, now perfectly still, submerged in the bathtub.

He's across the room in two strides and drops to his knees to pull her from the tub. He lays her on the floor and bends to listen for the sound of breathing.

There isn't any.

"I don't think so, Abigail."

He starts the chest compressions of CPR, his hands slipping on her slick skin.

Abigail starts sputtering and spitting up water. She takes a big gasping breath and her eyes flutter open.

When she sees him there next to her, Abigail gives a strangled cry and tries to back away, but doesn't have the strength.

Hannibal looks her over with interest.

_My frightened little doe._

His eyes rake over her naked form, taking note of the way her skin flushes under his gaze into the most perfect shade of rose. Abigail tries to cover herself with her hands, and Hannibal, gentleman that he is, stands to pass her one of his bathrobes.

She struggles to pull it on and when she does is swimming in it.

"You've caused your ear to start bleeding again," he tuts.

"What ear?" she mumbles, so quiet he barely hears.

Hannibal smirks, enjoying the resurfacing of her normal cheek.

"Come with me," he commands, holding a hand out to her. When she doesn't take it he adds, "if you are still too weak to walk, I can carry you."

This time she does take the proffered hand, and though she is a bit unstable as she rises, she doesn't fall. Abigail is a bit wobbly as he leads her through the door to the adjoining bedroom, and Hannibal wraps his arm around her waist, grasping her firmly by the hip.

His grip feels too familiar on her waist, but Abigail says nothing, letting him lead her to a bed on the far side of the room.

After she is settled safely onto the edge of the bed, Hannibal turns back towards the bathroom, unbuttoning his now drenched vest and dress shirt.

Abigail looks around and finds herself a little surprised by the décor. The room is designed in shades of blue, but there are several things that seem out of place for the doctor's bedroom. For instance the cherry wood vanity and stool across from the bed, make-up and perfume sitting on top of it seems peculiar, and the fresh lilies on the bedside table. The strangest item in the room, however, is the small, delicate, doll relaxing atop a pillow on the bed.

A doll that looks exactly like Abigail.

"I hope you find the room to your liking," Hannibal says, perching on the bed next to her. "I've been working on it for a while."

Abigail nods.

Hannibal is now shirtless, drying himself with a large fluffy towel.

"Y—you've been expecting me?" she asks.

"Not in precisely this manner, but I had been planning to offer you a place to stay after the hospital released you."

Abigail bites her lip and thinks about how wonderful it would have been to be brought to this room as a guest instead of a captive. It is quite a lovely space, much nicer than what she'd had with her parents. And to think she could have been sharing this house with her protector and friend… instead of this mad man, the Chesapeake Ripper.

 _Just because you didn't know the truth before doesn't mean you would have been safe,_ she reminds herself.

"Let me tend to your ear," Hannibal says, reaching for supplies he had set out on the bedside table.

Abigail pulls her hair to the side, exposing her injury and he sets to work, first cleaning and then bandaging the wound.

"Am I your prisoner?" she asks after he has finished.

Hannibal cocks his head to the side.

"Of course not."

"Then I can leave?"

"Abigail," he sighs, "it is not safe for you to be out there… for either of us."

"So, I  _am_  a prisoner," she says, crossing her arms.

Hannibal places his hand on her knee.

"You are so much more."

Abigail scoots away from his touch, refusing to look at him, and therefore missing the angry glint in his eye. Hannibal reaches out and grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"What do you want from me?" she begs.

"I only wish to protect you. To do that, I must reinvent you."

"Are you going to hurt me again?"

She hates the fear that leaks into her voice, but she can't find the will to be strong.

"Only if I must," Hannibal replies.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I've been flying through all the Hannigail fics on this site and couldn't resist giving a try at my own multi-chaptered Hannibal x Abigail story.  Please review and let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter Two

"You need to eat something," Hannibal insists, standing up. "You've lost a lot of blood today."

Abigail doesn't say anything, instead she studies the flowered pattern of the blue comforter she's sitting on, and trys to ignore how uncomfortable Hannibal's half-nakedness is making her.

"I'll be right back with some food for you. Please make yourself comfortable. There are pajamas in the bottom drawer," he says pointing to a large cherry wood dresser.

Hannibal is almost out the door when he pauses and turns to look back at her.

"If you try to hurt yourself again, there will be very serious consequences, Abigail. Do you understand?"

Abigail looks up at him timidly and nods.

With that he walks into the hall and closes her door behind him. She can hear a very audible - _click-_  as he locks her in.

Abigail bolts off the bed and starts looking for another way out. There are only two doors in the bedroom, one that leads to the hall, and the one that leads into the bathroom.

She hurries back into the bathroom, careful not to slip in the water all over the floor, and tries the other door in there. She suspects that leads to the hallway as well, but it's locked and she can't get out.

Abigail returns to her new bedroom and goes to the window; it looks out over Hannibal's backyard. The fall would be a long drop, but there are some bushes on the ground below she can just make out.

_Probably safer than staying,_  she thinks.

When she attempts to open the window, though, it won't budge. She tries fiddling with the latch, but it makes no difference. Abigail suspects it must be nailed shut.

_What am I going to do?_

She runs her fingers through her wet, and tangled hair.

_I need to get away, but there's no way out._

Abigail takes a deep breath, trying to figure out all her options.

_I need to figure out what he wants from me. Maybe then I can find a way out of here… a way to escape from not only Hannibal, but also the FBI. He said he wouldn't hurt me unless he had to, so maybe if I play along it won't be so bad._

She rolls her eyes, wondering how she can hold onto such a little piece of hope, when she knows Hannibal is a master of deception.

_It's not like you have many other choices_ , she sighs inwardly.

Abigail takes a deep breath. Having a plan of action, no matter how small, lends her strength.

She opens the bottom drawer of the dresser Hannibal pointed out and finds it filled with pajamas. She had been hoping for sweatpants or something she could lose herself in (the more coverage the better), something that would feel like armor, but instead finds the drawer filled with an assortment of short nightgowns.

Repressing a grimace, Abigail drops Hannibal's bathrobe to the ground, pulls out a white baby doll, and slips it over her head. The fabric falls just past mid thigh, leaving her feeling exposed.

She rummages through a couple more drawers and thankfully finds some undergarments. Just as she slips on a pair of cotton underwear she hears footsteps climbing the stairs.

Abigail seats herself at the vanity and begins detangling her hair with an ornate silver hairbrush.

Carefully unlocking Abigail's door, Hannibal feels a rush of satisfaction when it swings open to reveal her sitting at the vanity brushing her hair. He leans against the doorframe, tray of food in hand, and just watches her.

Abigail looks up into the vanity mirror and meets Hannibal's eyes, then sets the brush down and turns to face him.

"Come," he says, "sit on the bed, just this once, mind you, and eat. We can talk if you wish."

He stays where he is, waiting for her to make the first move. When she stands to cross the room, Hannibal can't help but notice how innocent and fragile she looks and he prides himself on his selection of clothing for her.

_I wonder how she would look covered in blood like she was after killing Nick Boyle?_

An image of Abigail flits to the front of his mind, her white nightdress spattered and hands dripping with blood.

Abigail sits on the edge of the bed, and tugs at the hem of her nightdress, trying to pull fabric as far down as it will go. She doesn't see the look of pride in Hannibal's face as he comes to join her; the look a teacher might wear when gazing upon his prize pupil.

He places the tray carefully on her lap, and sits next to her.

"Chicken soup?" she asks, wondering if it is really chicken.

"More broth than anything," he answers. "Your throat will be sore from drowning."

Abigail bites her lip. His tone isn't angry, necessarily, but she can hear the disapproval as clearly as if he had been shouting it.

"I—I'm sorry… about that," she says, looking up at him. "I didn't know what you were planning for me."

_I still don't_ , she thinks bitterly,  _but whatever it is, I_ am  _going to survive it._

"Given the situation, I can understand where your concern may have stemmed from, but what you did was inexcusable," Hannibal reprimands. "Life is precious, Abigail. You must never harm yourself again."

"I won't."

He stares into her eyes for a moment and must find what he's looking for because he nods and glances away.

"Eat your soup before it gets cold."

She does as she's told and finds that she is actually quite hungry. The broth stings on the way down and the meat and vegetables scratch against her raw throat uncomfortably, but it doesn't take her long to finish the bowl.

"Would you like some more?" he asks.

"No, thank you. I would like to get some rest though."

Hannibal stands up and takes the tray from her.

"Your bathroom is stocked with all the essentials. Why don't you ready yourself for bed while I take care of these dishes, and I'll bring you something to help you sleep?"

"Oh, I really don't need—"

"Abigail, I insist. It will help with the pain of your ear, and ensure you get a full night's rest."

Before she can offer any more protest, Hannibal is out the door, closing and locking it behind him.

Abigail sighs, exhausted, and goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she opens the cabinet she finds it is indeed well stocked. There are several toothbrushes with different bristle strengths all still in their packaging, toothpaste, four different brands of facial cleanser, and a large array of feminine hygiene products.

_How long is he planning for me to be here?_

She tries not to think of it, and busies herself getting ready for bed.

Abigail has just pulled the covers back, after hiding that creepy doll likeness of herself in a drawer, and is climbing into bed when Hannibal returns.

He brings her a glass of water and two tiny blue pills.

"Take these," he commands.

Reluctantly, Abigail takes the glass and the drugs from him. She pops the pills into her mouth and tucks them under her tongue before taking a swig of water and putting the glass on her nightstand.

"Good girl," he says, smiling.

Then Hannibal bends over and tucks the blankets around her.

"Goodnight, Abigail."

He places a kiss on her forehead.

"Goodnight, Hannibal."

He turns the lights off as he leaves, the room plunging into darkness. The only light is from the moonlight streaming in the window.

Abigail spits the slightly soggy pills into her hand and tucks them between the mattress and the bed frame.

_I am not taking any damn sleeping pills in this house._

She lies back and stares up at the ceiling, wondering what tomorrow will bring, and just what Hannibal meant when he said he needed to reinvent her.

She's not sure how long she lies there, thinking about the mess her life has become, before she hears the bedroom door unlock.

Abigail's heart stops.

The doorknob jangles and the hinges creak slightly.

She closes her eyes and tries to regulate her breathing. She would bet anything that had she taken those pills she would be dead to the world by now, metaphorically speaking, with no clue someone is in her room.

Footsteps come around her side of the bed and, unable to resist, she peeks out from under her lashes. Hannibal's unmistakable form is towering over her.

After a moment he turns away and she thinks he is leaving, but instead he walks to her vanity and pulls the chair out, turning it to face her, and takes a seat.

Abigail forces her breathing to remain even, realizing as she does so she can make out Hannibal's own breathing. Deep and even.

Her body is tense and she counts to ten, urging herself to relax and act natural.

When she relaxes, Abigail can feel the weight of her day hitting her. She can feel sleep calling her, tugging at her consciousness, but she tries to resist.

It's no use.

Abigail drifts off to sleep, still listening to the sound of Hannibal's breathing, and feeling his eyes on her.

When she wakes up in the morning there is no sign of him, or any hint that he was there at all. She almost wonders if she dreamt him.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'll be updating this fic at least once a week (usually Sunday or Monday) but on occasion I may get an update out early. Please, please, please review! I love to know what you guys are thinking! There are so few Hannigail shippers out there and we need to stick together! If anyone is interested, my tumblr is allons-ymrholmes. I post a lot of Hannibal stuff, but a lot of Game of Thrones and other random stuff as well. Come check me out!


	3. Chapter Three

Abigail's ear is throbbing painfully when she sits up in bed, and she curses under her breath in a very unladylike fashion. Tossing back the covers, she hobbles out of bed, her joints stiff from her traumatic day yesterday.

She ambles into the bathroom and pulls open the medicine cabinet hoping to find some type of painkiller in there. The only thing Abigail finds is a box of Midol and a travel size bottle of Motrin.

She groans when she sees it's only 200mg Motrin.

Abigail opens the bottle and dry swallows four of the little pills, then cranks the sink on and drinks straight from the faucet.

The pills hurt going down more than she expected.

_Oh, yeah. The whole drowning thing,_  she reminds herself sarcastically.  _That was a dumb idea._

She doesn't mean just the suicide part, but thinking she could actually manage to drown herself in a bathtub.

When she returns to the bedroom, Abigail notices a sheet of paper resting on the floor in front of the door.

_Dearest Abigail,_

_I wish I were able to be there when you wake, but alas, I have a busy schedule this morning. You see I'm about to receive the tragic news of your death. This will cause me great distress and therefore I will be allowed to shirk my duties in favor of grieving and will be home in time for lunch._

_If you look in the bottom drawer of your vanity you will find some vacuum-sealed homemade granola bars. This should be a suitable breakfast for today. I will make it up to with a nice big meal when I return._

_Do try to get some rest today._

_Yours,_

_Hannibal_

_P.S. If you decide to hurt yourself, or make another attempt on your life, I will kill Alana Bloom. I know you are fond of her, and while I myself am fond of Dr. Bloom, this is the only way I know to guarantee your safety. I am a man of my word Abigail. Do not test me._

Tears sting her eyes as she reads his note. Even if she could bring herself to try to commit suicide again, Abigail knows she couldn't do it at the risk of Alana's life. Alana was very kind to her, and always stood up for her. She had tried to protect Abigail form Jack Crawford even when she suspected Abigail had been hiding something.

Alana is a good person, and Abigail cannot be the cause of Dr. Bloom's death. She doesn't doubt Hannibal's words for a second.

There really is no way out.

_You are just going to have to play along and see what happens. If you play the game, there's a chance you could win._

The first thing she does after reading the letter, is try the bedroom door. It's locked just as she suspected it would be.

Sighing, she decides to dig out one of the granola bars mentioned.

She inspects the bar wondering if it's completely vegetarian, or if she's holding puree of someone who pissed off Hannibal. Abigail rips it open, sniffs it, and decides she is far too hungry to be picky.

_It tastes like a regular granola bar._

She strolls around the room as she eats, looking through drawers and inspecting everything. The dresser is filled with clothing in her size, though nothing she would normally wear.

Abigail is a hunter. She grew up in a small town. She's a blue jean kind of girl. All of the clothing Hannibal has provided her is dressy, even the "casual" stuff. Aside from two, tailored looking, pant suits, the rest of her new wardrobe consists of dresses.

_Cocktail dresses, sweater dresses, skirts and blouses…_

Aside from the impractical clothing, Abigail notices one other glaring problem… there is no form of entertainment anywhere in the room. No books, no mp3 player, no paper or pens.

_What the hell am I supposed to do all day?_

Abigail groans and plops down into the chair at the vanity. She groans even louder when she sees her reflection.

Her skin is even paler than usual, there are huge purple bags under her eyes, and her hair is atrocious.

There are many different make-up products arranged artfully on the vanity's surface. Everything she would need to stop herself from looking like a zombie, but she wonders why she should even bother.

Abigail picks up a delicate glass bottle of some expensive looking perfume and twirls it between her fingers. The name is in another language and she has no idea how to pronounce it.

_You should clean yourself up, because that's what he wants,_  she thinks suddenly.  _Why else would Hannibal spend all this money on this crap? He knows I don't wear stuff like this. He said he wants to reinvent you. So let him. Or at least let him think you are letting him._

Hating herself for doing exactly what he wants, but knowing it's her best and only plan, Abigail starts doing her make-up. She's careful not to overdo it; just enough to keep her looking human, with a dash of blush and light glaze of lip-gloss.

Next she works on her hair. She is pleased to find a straightening iron in the bathroom, a really nice one with real ceramic plates. She straightens her hair with it, glad to be able to hide the thick white gauze covering her ear, or what's left of it.

It makes her ill to think of the missing appendage.

Finally she searches for the perfect outfit. She almost puts on a slinky black cocktail dress, but realizes she doesn't want him to know she's trying so hard. Instead, Abigail selects a gray sweater dress with a belted waist and a turtleneck. It's hardly the denim armor she longs for, but the turtleneck hides her scar and gives her a little sense of security.

After that she has nothing to do but wait for Hannibal to return. She's not even sure what time it is. There's no clock in the room.

Abigail paces back and forth, refusing to hold still. She doesn't want to think too much. If she does she'll focus on her current situation and her chest will start to hurt. She has to give herself little task after little task, because thinking of the big picture is overwhelming.

_Forty steps from the bathroom door to the far wall. Seventeen from the hall door to the outside wall._

She's not sure how many times she walks those same two paths before she hears the front door slam.

_Time to play._

 

Hannibal hums softly to himself as he enters the house. Today played out just as he expected it would, and he's always in a good mood when things go as planned.

Sadly, he had to throw Will Graham under the bus, something he'd rather not have done. After all, Will is one of the most interesting patients Hannibal's ever had. But it was either Will or Hannibal and Abigail, and what was one life to protect two?

Hannibal was a little surprised when Alana showed up at his office in person to tell him of Abigail's murder and of Will's guilt. She was shocked and saddened, but didn't question that it was the truth.

He had played his part well, first expressing stunned disbelief and then devastated silence. Alana had tried to comfort him, saying no one saw what was happening to Will, but Hannibal sent her away. Told her he needed time.

She told him she understood, and that she knew how close he was with Will and how close he had grown to Abigail.

After that, Hannibal had canceled the rest of his appointments and hurried home to his waiting prodigy.

He hangs his coat and takes the stairs two at a time, eager to check Abigail has not hurt herself again. Hannibal is fairly certain his threat did the trick, but wants to be reassured by his own eyes.

When he unlocks the door he finds Abigail leaning against the window, looking out on the yard. She turns around when she hears him enters and gives him an unsure expression.

Abigail is wearing one of the dresses he bought her and has even done her hair and make-up. She looks lovely… and he is completely surprised. Not that she is lovely, he's always recognized that, but that she so willingly made herself up. He half expected to find her moping in bed still in her nightclothes.

"You look very nice," he says, "especially for a dead girl."

"So it's official?" she asks, swallowing loudly.

"Abigail Hobbs was murdered in her childhood home. The amount of blood makes it rather obvious, though the only body part they could find was an ear. It was coughed up by her murderer, Will Graham."

"Poor Will," she says quietly, turning back towards the window.

Hannibal quietly crosses the room to stand behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder. She stiffens slightly, but doesn't cringe away which he takes as a good sign.

"It was him, or both of us," he insists.

"Does he know it was you who set him up?"

"No. He doesn't know he was set up. He believes he killed you."

She bows her head at this, and Hannibal wonders if she is going to cry. He knows she cares for Will.

Instead she surprises him.

"I guess that makes things easier," she says turning back around.

Their chests are only separated by a few measly inches, something they are both acutely aware of.

Abigail looks up at him and gives him the tiniest smirk.

"What's for lunch?"

* * *

**Author's Note:**   Hope you are still enjoying this!  Please let me know what you think in the reviews!  Just a reminder, updates will be coming once a week, or on rare occasions (like this) they might come sooner.  


	4. Chapter Four

Hannibal leads Abigail downstairs, heading for the kitchen, and with every step further away from the bedroom, Abigail feels herself grow more tense. She's resigned to let things play out as they will, but her fight or flight instinct is flaring and urging for her to try to escape. She pushes the thought away and takes slow steady breaths.

When they enter the gleaming and pristine kitchen Hannibal signals for her to take a seat in the corner of the room.

"Can't I help with anything?" she asks, her voice huskier than usual due to the soreness lingering in her throat.

Hannibal frowns slightly; concerned Abigail's drowning may have done more damage than he previously thought. She seems fine otherwise, so he decides to hold off examining her.

"You can wash and chop the romaine," he instructs. "I thought we would have something light, chicken caesar salad, for lunch, and for dinner I will make a large welcome home feast. How does that sound?"

Abigail forces herself to smile, hoping it looks more natural than it feels.

"That sounds lovely," she tells him, then glances at the ground, "it's nice to have a home to be welcomed into."

Hannibal strides over to her side and takes her hand.

"Abigail, you will always have a home here… a home with me."

This time she can't think of the right words, so instead of talking she gives him small smile, nods, and slips her hand from his so she can get the lettuce from the fridge.

They work in silence, for a spell, Abigail chopping and slicing while Hannibal pan-fries slices of what he says is chicken.

Finally, she can't take the quiet.

"How is Dr. Bloom?" she asks, aiming to sound casual, but utterly failing.

"I didn't harm her, if that's what you are asking."

"No, of course not. I didn't hurt myself, and I do trust you are a man of your word, so I know you wouldn't harm her."  _Unless you deem it necessary,_  she thinks. "I was just wondering, how she is taking the news? I know she has, or had, feelings for Will. It must be terrible for her to think of him as a killer."

"Very astute," Hannibal commends.

"I wouldn't call it astute," she says smartly, "I think the only ones who don't know Will and Dr. Bloom are in love are Will and Dr. Bloom."

Hannibal chuckles.

"Yes, I suppose that is true," he concedes. "Alana is very troubled about the situation. She is heartbroken about your loss, and she feels as if she failed both you and Will. She is, however, holding up rather well. She is a strong woman."

Abigail senses the pride in his voice and briefly wonders how close his relationship with Dr. Bloom is, or was, in the past.

"Why don't you toss that salad with the homemade dressing in the fridge? The meat is almost ready."

 

They eat lunch in silence, Hannibal watching Abigail's every move, and taking note of the way she picks around the "chicken".

She can feel his eyes on her and makes herself stab a piece of the questionable meat with her fork.

 _It's chicken,_  she tells herself,  _it's just chicken._

She meets Hannibal's gaze as she takes a bite and he gives her a satisfied smile.

 

After lunch Abigail insists on doing the dishes.

"Please," she says, taking his dish from him, "you've already done so much for me today. Let me help out."

Begrudgingly Hannibal agrees.

"I suppose. I have to do some preparation for dinner anyway. We can work together."

She tries to look pleased by this, but on the inside Abigail is struggling. She was hoping he would leave her to wash dishes in peace so she could compose herself. She's barely started, but Abigail is already feeling the toll of playing along with whatever game Hannibal has initiated.

Cranking the water as hot as it will go, Abigail fills the sink and begins scrubbing up their lunch dishes. Her movements are harsh and determined, trying to push away her roiling emotions.

She wants to collapse and mourn. Mourn the loss of her innocence, stolen by her father when he made her a murder accomplice, mourn the loss of her identity, torn away from her by Hannibal and his knife, mourn the loss of Will and Dr. Bloom, taken from her and from each other because they were too close to ground zero when everything exploded.

 _Mourn my ear_ , she thinks, feeling childish.

What is one ear when balanced next to the rest of her list?

She doesn't realize she's crying into the dishwater until Hannibal is beside her, taking the frying pan from her, and drying her hands with a kitchen towel.

"Shh," he coos, pulling her into his arms and cradling her against his chest. "Tell me what is wrong. Why do you cry?"

She can't prevent the bubble of hysterical laughter that bursts from her chest.

_How can he even ask me that?_

_Pull yourself together,_  she urges.

"I'm sorry," she says, letting her body relax into his. "I'm just… overwhelmed. The last few days have been a lot to handle."

"You have done as well as can be expected, perhaps even moreso," Hannibal insists.

His hand starts to rub comforting circles on her back.

"I can't compartmentalize things the way you do," she says. "I know everything you've done for me… for  _us_ , is for the best, and I am so very thankful. It's just… I care about Will, and about Dr. Bloom, and I know you do as well. How do you stop yourself from feeling guilty?"

Abigail leans back so she can look up into Hannibal's eyes, but he keeps his arms wrapped protectively around her.

"I never feel guilty. I do however harbor regret, on occasion, though probably not as much as the average human being. I regret what was done to Will, and in turn Alana, but I do not feel guilt over this. It is a cruel, harsh world, Abigail, and only the strong survive. You cannot be strong if you are riddled with guilt."

Hannibal places a gentle hand on her cheek.

"You must realize there is no guilt in being a survivor," he says. "I think you could use a rest. Why don't you retire to my study and I'll bring you some tea?"

"Can I have chamomile? No psychedelic mushrooms?"

"Whatever you like," he replies with a smirk.

Abigail goes to the study, glad to have a moment to alone, but cursing herself for being so weak as to have a breakdown with Hannibal in the room.

_You have to be stronger! You need to be in control or he will figure out you are just playing along._

She dabs at her eyes and wipes her cheeks, trying to rid herself of all signs of crying without smudging her makeup. Abigail paces the room, reading the titles of Hannibal's extensive book collection, trying to prevent herself from thinking too much.

"Find anything that stands out to you?" Hannibal asks, his voice coming from very close behind her, making her jump.

"All of them stand out to me," she says, turning to face him. "I would have loved to have any of these today. It was a little boring in my room."

Hannibal passes her a cup of tea and frowns.

"I'm so sorry, I must have overlooked leaving you entertainment. Please, feel free to help yourself to my collection. Is there anything else you might like to help pass the time?"

"I like to draw," she answers after a moment's consideration. "A sketch book and some pencils would be nice."

"That is something I have an abundance of."

Abigail wonders if he is going to hover around and watch her, but Hannibal leaves her to her own devices almost immediately.

A short while later he returns carrying an armful of art supplies.

"Do you have any books you'd like to bring upstairs with you?"

She makes a hasty selection and Hannibal signals for her to follow him. He takes her upstairs and Abigail feels confinement settling around her when she steps back into her gilded cage.

Hannibal puts the sketch paper and array of pencils on her bedside table and Abigail carefully aligns the books she chose on top of her dresser.

"How is your ear feeling?" he asks. "I'd like to take a look at it if you don't mind."

"It's throbbing a bit," she admits, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. "It hurt pretty bad this morning. I took some of the Motrin you put in the bathroom."

Hannibal sits down beside her and brushes her hair back behind her shoulder. His fingers are slow and deliberate, trailing along her jawline in gentle caress. Abigail has to resist a shiver she feels run down her spine.

He removes the bandage covering her wound and carefully prods the area, causing her to wince. Hannibal puts a reassuring hand, the one not poking her missing ear, on her leg.

"It isn't infected, and that is the most important thing."

He gets up and crosses the room, going into the bathroom to collect clean gauze and tape to make her a new bandage. When he starts to patch her up it doesn't take him long. As soon as the new gauze is secure Abigail shakes her hair forward to hide it.

"I'll bring you some more painkillers in a little while. First, though, I must make a quick trip to the store. I need fresh crème for dessert tonight."

"Thank you."

Hannibal gives her a small smile and then leans down suddenly to give her a kiss on the forehead.

"I'll be back soon," he says, standing up.

She hears the lock click loudly as he closes the door on his way out.

 _At least he won't be gone long,_  she thinks, and then wonders if it is a good sign that she sees that as a relief.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**  Sorry about the delay! Please let me know what you think, reviews are always welcome and appreciated!


	5. Chapter Five

Hannibal wasn't lying about needing crème from the store, but he could have gone without it tonight. The truth is he wants to surprise Abigail with a gift.

In his office he has a beautiful old book that focuses on the art of sketching. He didn't know Abigail liked to draw, or he would have brought it home sooner. Hannibal can't help but smile as he climbs the steps to his office building, thinking about how much Abigail will enjoy the gift.

He's so preoccupied thinking of his new ward, that he doesn't immediately notice the slight breeze in his office. Hannibal crosses to his desk and sits down, pulling out the book to flip through the pages. He wants to be sure it's as good as he remembers.

_Creak._

A soft creak and a strong gust of wind carrying the smell of cheap aftershave sets him on edge.

_Will._

X

Abigail plops down on the bed, spreading her new art supplies out in front of her. She's not a great artist, in her opinion, but she loves drawing to pass the time.

Staring down at the blank paper, Abigail contemplates what to draw. She chews on the end of her pencil absentmindedly, a bad habit she can never quite shake, and sighs.

Eventually she settles on a self-portrait and grabs a small compact mirror off her vanity to help her. She never used to need a mirror next to her when drawing self-portraits, but she feels like a completely different person from who she was just days ago. Abigail half expects not to recognize the girl in the mirror.

_Still looks like me,_ she thinks, and then turns her head to see the bandage on her ear.  _Well, almost._

X

"Take me to Minnesota," Will says, "I want to see where Abigail died."

Hannibal looks across at Will, sitting in the chair he'd spent so much time in during their therapy sessions. Will is sweaty, and twitchy, his illness more pronounced than ever. His skin is sallow and sickly, the prison orange of his jump suit doing nothing to aid his complexion.

"Will, you are wanted by the FBI," Hannibal replies, voice soft. "Even if I thought it would somehow be beneficial to your therapy, I can't just take you—"

In a flash Will draws a gun from his pocket, and aims it Hannibal halfheartedly.

"Take me to Minnesota."

Hannibal studies Will calculatingly. In any other circumstance he would still say no, knowing that Will Graham is not a murderer, but with the fever flaring through his body, who knows what Will is capable of?

_Abigail is alone and waiting for you._

He could overpower Will, and take the gun, but that runs the risk of Hannibal having to injure, and possibly kill, the other man… and he knows that will drive Abigail out of reach.

"Let's go to Minnesota," he says, all the while hoping for Jack Crawford to burst in and stop them.

Unfortunately, he doesn't.

X

It's not until after sunset Abigail truly starts to wonder what's keeping Hannibal. Her stomach growls loudly, demanding a more hearty fare after her light breakfast and lunch.

She tries working on her sketch some more, but her gurgling insides distract her and Abigail decides to have another granola bar from the small stash in her drawer.

A few more hours pass and Abigail starts pacing, feeling anxious.

_It can't take this long just to go to the store. Something must be wrong! Maybe someone found out that Hannibal framed Will. Maybe he's been arrested!_

That thought turns her stomach.

_If he's been arrested, how long will it be before they search his house?_

She's not sure which terrifies her more, the thought of the FBI finding her, or the thought of the FBI  _not_  finding her.

Abigail stands at her window staring out at the backyard, watching for any signs of headlights from the front of the house.

_He wasn't arrested,_ she reassures herself,  _he's far too smart for that. Hannibal probably just had a patient emergency and will be home late._

Her stomach growls again and Abigail eats another granola bar. There's one left in the drawer, and she decides to save it for later.

She paces the room, her new books and art supplies sitting completely ignored. Abigail stays up until her eyes are itchy and watering, and her ear throbbing painfully. She goes to the bathroom and takes the rest of the Motrin, hoping it will mask the pain enough that she can sleep.

Her mind races as she lies in bed, all thoughts of the horrible things that might have happened running through her head. She eventually finds sleep, but it's fitful and she wakes in the morning feeling worse than she did before.

The first thing she does when she climbs out of bed is check her door to see if Hannibal has left another note, but there is no sign of one and no sign that he has been back at all. Abigail presses her good ear against the door, listening for sounds of movement in the house. There are none.

She chews her lower lip and tries to ignore her grumbling stomach.

_He'll be back soon_ , she tries to convince herself.

Abigail settles back onto the bed and continues her drawing, letting her mind wander as she does so. When she actually zones back in on what she's doing she scowls and slams the drawing on her bedside table.

X

Hannibal and Will don't arrive at Abigail's old house in Minnesota until almost nine the next morning, and Hannibal is feeling exhausted by the almost eighteen hour drive. He refuses to let it show, though, holding his head high and remaining composed as he and Will make their way through the house.

Being here, where Abigail was supposedly murdered, seems to make things click for Will. Hannibal can practically hear the synapses firing as everything falls into place.

"—The scales have fallen from my eyes. I can see you now," Will says, turning the gun on Hannibal.

"What do you see?" Hannibal asks, his professional curiosity almost bursting.

"You called here that morning. Abigail knew. You kept her secrets, until—un-until what? She found out some of yours?"

Hannibal tries to change the subject, and steer their conversation away from Abigail, but Will only grows more incensed. The danger signs are stacking up, but Hannibal doesn't see a clear way to get out of the situation without having to kill Will. Then, he hears the front door creak open and someone tiptoe up the stairs.

Jack Crawford steps into the room just in time to shoot Will and stop him from shooting Hannibal in the head.

Will collapses in the corner, muttering just like Garret Jacob-Hobbs.

"See? See?"

X

As the day wears on Abigail's fear grows, and she again starts running through plausible scenarios.

_Maybe he was in an accident. If he's in the hospital no one will think to check here and I could be stuck here, wasting away, without anyone even knowing._

Her stomach turns from equal parts nerves and hunger.

Just yesterday Abigail had been in this room wishing for books or paper, and now that she has them she can't focus enough to read or draw. She again begins to pace the room, counting her steps.

_He has to come back. I need him._

Around noon Abigail eats her last granola bar and follows it up with as much water as she can drink from the bathroom faucet. It leaves her feeling full and uncomfortable, but after an hour and three trips to the bathroom to pee, she feels empty and hungry again.

When the sun starts to set, dipping low behind the trees outside her window, Abigail decides she can't take the waiting. Consciousness is driving her mad, and her ear hurts almost too much to bear.

Remembering her first night in the room, Abigail sits on the edge of her bed and reaches between the mattress and frame to pull out two tiny blue pills. Then, without thinking about what consequences it might bring, she pops them in her mouth and dry swallows them.

She changes from her rumpled sweater dress and slips into another of the nightgowns from the dresser. Her eyes are almost to heavy to hold open by the time she makes it back to the bed, and Abigail doesn't even pull a blanket over herself before she is asleep.

X

Hannibal is exhausted when he finally pulls into his driveway. It's just after four in the morning, almost forty hours since he told Abigail he was running to the store.

Jack had insisted on questioning Hannibal far longer than necessary, and had almost made him stay in Minnesota another day, worrying the drive would be too much. Hannibal had promised to stop at a hotel on his journey home, but that was just to get Jack off his back. He couldn't stop; Abigail is relying on him.

Not even pausing to take off his coat when he gets inside the house, Hannibal heads upstairs to check on Abigail. He listens outside her room, but doesn't hear anything.

When he unlocks the door and cracks it open the hall light streams in to reveal her sleeping form on top of her comforter. Hannibal almost closes the door again to let her sleep, but changes his mind at the last second, knowing she must be hungry.

He turns the lamp on her bedside table on and pauses, looking down on her. She looks so peaceful in sleep.

She's wearing a deep blue nightgown, the color making her pale skin glow. Abigail is lying on her side and the chiffon material of the gown is bunched up revealing a long expanse of milky white thigh. Her dark hair is fanned out on the pillow and Hannibal can't help but sit beside her and twist a silky lock around his finger.

He sighs and releases the small curl, then places a hand on her arm.

"Abigail," he says quietly, not wishing to startle her.

She murmurs, but doesn't wake.

"Abigail, I'm home."

Her eyelids start to flutter, but she seems to be having a hard time waking up, almost as if she has taken a sleeping aid.

_There were not any in the bathroom,_ he thinks.  _She's only had— the ones the first night._   _She didn't take them. Clever girl._

He frowns as her eyes drift closed again.

_The pills should not make her this exhausted._

_Though, if you take them on an empty stomach…_

"Abigail, wake up. You need to eat something."

She finally seems to wake, grogginess clouding her face.

"Hannibal?" she croaks.

"Yes. I'm here."

Her eyes widen and her hand reaches out to grab hold of him.

"You're back," she says, and he finds himself fighting a smirk at the relief in her tone. "I was so worried."

Though her voice is thick from sleep, Abigail's grasp on him is firm, her fingers twisting the fabric of his coat sleeve as if he'll slip away if she doesn't hold on tight.

"I apologize for worrying you. I'm afraid my absence was unavoidable. I will do everything in my power to avoid another situation of the kind."

She doesn't say anything, instead just staring at him, wide eyes trying to decipher…  _something._

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

In reply, Abigail's stomach growls loudly.

"As am I," Hannibal says standing up, arm still clamped in her vice like grip. "Let's go downstairs and I'll whip us up something."

Abigail's legs are unsteady and Hannibal wonders if he may have misjudged the dose of the pills he gave her. He helps her to the kitchen and leaves her sitting in the chair in the corner of the room.

She seems reluctant to let go of him, and Hannibal wonders if his absence has triggered some sort of emotional break down.

Her eyes follow his every move as he goes about making them something to eat.

_If she thought something happened to me, arguably the last person she has to rely on, it could have triggered a psychotic episode. Then again, it may just be lingering remnants of the sleeping pills she took._

He's not sure which would be more preferable to him.

Too tired to bother with an elaborate meal, Hannibal settles for frying up a couple of "steaks" and steams some fresh vegetables. He still takes time to artfully plate the meal; he could never be too tired for proper presentation.

When they sit down in the dining room to eat, Abigail doesn't show any of the hesitation over the meat as she did before. She is too hungry to care. Hannibal smiles approvingly as he pours them each a glass of red wine.

"Thank you," she finally says, pausing halfway through her meal. "It's delicious."

"I'm sure anything would taste delicious after fasting for so long, but thank you."

"Where were you?" she asks, biting her lip. "I thought you had been in an accident. Or…. arrested."

"I was at your old home. With Will."

Hannibal tells her all about Will showing up at his office, drawing a gun on him, and forcing Hannibal to take him to Minnesota.

"I'm— I'm glad you're okay," Abigail says, not meeting his eyes.

"I imagine it must be a relief knowing you won't be trapped in that room waiting to see if I'll come back."

"Well, yes… but I'm just glad you're okay."

She still refuses to look at him, perhaps embarrassed by the admission. Abigail picks up her wine glass and drains it, then turns her attention back to her meal.

By the time they finish, both are about to fall asleep into their plates. Hannibal clears the table, leaving dirty dishes in the sink for what may very well be the first time in his life. When he walks back into the dining room, Abigail is asleep with her head on the table.

Smiling softly, Hannibal scoops her up into his arms to carry her upstairs. Her arms come up to wrap around his neck, and when he tries to place her in bed she clings to him sleepily.

"Don't leave me," she murmurs, eyes still closed. "I don't want to be alone."

He hesitates suspecting this sudden need for him has more to do with the pills and the wine than her actual want of him to stay.

"Please?" she asks.

"I'm not going anywhere," he replies.

Kicking off his shoes, Hannibal climbs into bed with Abigail, grateful he took his vest and tie off when making dinner. Abigail curls against his chest as he pulls the blankets up to cover them.

As he leans to turn off the bedside lamp Hannibal sees a sketch Abigail must have drawn while he was gone. It's a self-portrait, and it almost breaks his heart to look at it. The sketched Abigail is wearing a look of sadness and loneliness, and she's surrounded by darkness.

Hannibal flips the switch on the lamp and pulls Abigail closer.

_You are not alone in the darkness, I'm right beside you._

* * *

**Author's** **Note:**  Okay, so this is the longest chapter to date, by almost a thousand words, but there wasn't a good place to cut it off and I didn't figure you guys would mind.  As you may have noticed, this takes place during the season 1 finale, and some of the dialogue was taken directly from the show.  As always, reviews are much appreciated, I love hearing your thoughts on how things are progressing!


	6. Chapter Six

Abigail is surprised when she wakes the next morning, and more than a little embarrassed.

She is the first one to wake up finding herself curled against Hannibal, her head on his chest and hands grasping his shirt. The steady rise and fall of his chest tells her he's still sleeping. She supposes he probably didn't get much rest the last two days.

Memories of last night start to surface and Abigail feels mortified when she remembers asking him to stay with her.

 _Oh god. It must have been the pills and the wine_ , she thinks, ignoring the nagging sense she gets when lying to herself.

Keeping still, Abigail tries to organize her thoughts before alerting Hannibal she's awake. When she glances at the opposite side of the room her heart skips a beat.

_The door is open._

This is her chance. If she could just slip out of bed unnoticed, Abigail could get out the door, lock it behind her and make it out of the house. Perhaps without Hannibal even noticing. Her body tenses, and she can hear the blood pounding in her ears.

She wants nothing more than to be away from this place… from this man.

 _Or do I,_ she wonders.

_Where will I go? To Alana? That would just put her in danger. Will is in jail. My best friend is dead. I have no family. I would have no one to run to, except maybe the FBI and Jack Crawford wants me behind bars._

Without realizing it, Abigail's grip on Hannibal's shirt tightens.

_I have no one. No one but Hannibal, and I have no idea what he wants from me. He has to want something, right? Men like him don't act without purpose._

The urge to flee slowly dwindling, Abigail keeps her eyes on the door, indecision lining her face.

_He must be starting to trust me; otherwise he wouldn't have stayed with me. If I just stay a while longer I can find out what he wants, and if I don't like it there will be other chances to escape._

Sighing lightly, she loosens her grip on Hannibal's shirt and rubs her hand across it to flatten the wrinkles she'd made.

When she glances up at his face, Abigail is startled to see his eyes are open and watching her intently.

"Good morning, Abigail."

She pulls away from him, self-consciously averting her gaze.

"Good morning," she replies quietly.

Hannibal shifts so they are both lying on their sides, facing each other.

"How did you sleep?" he asks, his voice low and tinged with that 'just woke up' huskiness.

"I slept well, thank you," she mumbles, still not meeting his gaze. "I hope you weren't too uncomfortable. It was rude of me to ask you to stay."

"I was quite comfortable. And I don't think it was rude. You were very tired, and had just been through yet another traumatic experience by thinking you'd been abandoned. It is okay to need someone, Abigail. You don't have to be alone."

Abigail doesn't say anything, though she does finally look up, her eyes meeting his. His dark eyes still hold the edge, the intensity, they always do, but there is something else there too. A softness she's never noticed before.

Just a glimmer and then it's gone, and he slips back behind his mask.

"I need to go out today," Hannibal says, after checking his watch. "I have to run by my office and then make some inquiries about what is happening to Will."

Abigail tenses.

"You have to go?"

The question is past her lips before she can stop herself.

Hannibal reaches up and places a large hand against her cheek, his thumb tracing her face lightly.

"I will be back before nightfall, I promise."

She swallows loudly and nods.

"Good girl. Now, why don't you go enjoy a bath and I'll whip you up something before I go."

"Okay."

Abigail doesn't even pause to think before complying. She climbs out of bed, tugging the hem of her nightgown down self-consciously, and patters into the bathroom.

Hannibal watches her go with a smirk on his face. He is starting to think Will dragging him to Minnesota was the best thing that could have happened.

Hannibal had seen the way Abigail was studying the door this morning, her face clearly giving away her thoughts. She saw her opportunity, and yet she had not taken it. Still, he can't be certain it was out of any loyalty to him, or just the fact she was scared to make an attempt with him right there.

His instincts are leaning towards her not  _wanting_  to go, but that doesn't make Hannibal foolish enough to give her free reign of the house while he is gone.

The bathwater running from the next room jolts his attention back and Hannibal climbs out of Abigail's bed. He pops next door to his room and takes a speedy shower before dressing and heading down to the kitchen.

Hannibal prepares Abigail a simple, though larger than necessary breakfast, and places it on a platter to take upstairs.

She's still in the tub when he walks into her room, he can hear the water sloshing lazily. Hannibal sets the tray on her bed, then scrawls out a quick note on a piece of sketching paper.

He is getting ready to leave, but has another thought.

When he finishes Hannibal closes and locks Abigail's bedroom door behind him, and heads out to complete his errands.

Abigail hears the door close in the next room, and panic starts to flutter in her chest. She climbs out of the tub and throws on a robe without even pausing to dry herself.

When she walks back into the bedroom Abigail finds a lidded silver platter, a note, and a dress on her bed.

_Dearest Abigail,_

_I swear to be back before nightfall this evening, do not fret. I have made you brunch, I hope it is to your liking. I have also laid out a dress for you for tonight. After all, I do owe you a feast._

_Yours,_

_Hannibal_

Abigail lifts the tray to find it laden with eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, and several warm croissants. Her stomach growls at the sight and grabs a roll immediately.

 _I wonder how long it will take to look at food without feeling like I should store it for winter,_  she thinks sarcastically.

As she tears of bits of the croissant, Abigail turns her attention to the dress Hannibal chose for her for the evening. It's the slinky black one she had considered her first day and decided against so she didn't seem to be trying too hard.

It's a figure hugging number, the material soft and clingy. It has long sleeves, but a swooping back that leaves her mostly bare and throws a bra out of the question, and it only comes to about mid-thigh.

Abigail swallows loudly, her stomach fluttering as the realization hits her that  _Hannibal Lecter_  picked this dress out for her to wear. To a dinner that only includes the two of them.

Her mind wanders to inappropriate places and she chides herself.

 _Certainly_ that's  _not what he wants. He said he wants to reinvent me. Hannibal Lecter wouldn't risk himself and his freedom just because he wants a go at a teenage girl._

She runs the fabric of the dress between her fingers.

_This is probably some sort of test, knowing him. I just wish I knew the right answer._

Abigail sits on the edge of the bed, picking at her food and staring at the dress. Hannibal is so hard for her to decipher. If it had been a gift from Will, she would know it was because he thought it would look pretty on her. If it had been from Alana, Abigail would have known it was meant be something to make her feel normal; a beautiful new dress that was supposed to make her feel like an average young woman. But with Hannibal…

She studies the garment appraisingly, trying to see what he saw.

_It doesn't offer much coverage._

_Which means there is no place to hide._

Abigail smiles when she thinks she understands what to do.

She finishes her meal, and then decides to do some more sketching for a while, not wanting to get ready too early and be uncomfortable all day.

Her mind wanders as she draws, another bad habit, and she finds herself thinking about her future. Wondering how long she will be here, and if she ever has any hope of leading a normal life.

Around midday Abigail hears Hannibal open the door downstairs. She panics because she thought she'd have more time to get ready, but slowly that panic subsides as she hears him moving about downstairs.

There are pots and pans clanging around in the kitchen, and Abigail breathes a sigh of relief.

_He's going to prepare dinner before calling on me._

She cleans up the mess of art materials off her bed and starts to prepare. She slips into the silky dress, forgoing any undergarments, and then turns her attention to her hair and make-up.

Abigail wants nothing more than to wrap a scarf around her neck and let her hair hang to cover her ear, but she resists. She pulls her hair into a loose updo, leaving her ear and scar uncovered.

She keeps her make-up light and natural looking and then to finish herself off slips into a pair of strappy, expensive, high heels. She can hear Hannibal climbing the stairs and she stands in the middle of the room, trying not to look as tense as she feels.

When he opens the door, his mouth frozen with whatever he was going to say stuck on his lips, Abigail knows she made the right choice.

She feels completely exposed and vulnerable under Hannibal's gaze, which is the perfect ideal for reinvention.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** As always, let me know what you think! *SHOW SPOILERS TO FOLLOW* I was eager to get this chapter out after the soul shattering finale yesterday. I  _was_  doing okay after the finale, but then I saw this in an interview with Bryan Fuller:

 **Fuller:**  Originally, we were going to have Hannibal flying away with Abigail Hobbs. When we started talking about it, we said, "Oh, gosh, we brought Miriam back and we're brining Dr. Chilton back — does that seem like too much?" So we just thought, "Well, let's just bring her back and kill her on-screen!" [ _Laughs_ ]

This pretty much destroyed me, because now we see just how close we were to actually having Hannibal and Abigail run off together. JFC Fuller, why must you taunt us! Anyways, anyone else still holding out hope our bby Abi survives again?


	7. Chapter Seven

As Hannibal continues to stand there, still not saying anything, Abigail feels herself start to blush.

"Good evening, Hannibal," she finally says, voice wavering slightly.

 _Maybe I misunderstood,_ she thinks, almost wishing she had put on a scarf after all.

"Good evening, Abigail," Hannibal replies smoothly, as if nothing is amiss. "You look lovely."

"Thank you. You look nice as well, though that's nothing new," she rambles.

Tonight Hannibal is wearing all black, quite somber compared to his usual bright displays of color.

_We're dressed for a funeral._

As the thought occurs to her, Abigail realizes that in many ways it is correct. Tonight they are celebrating the death of her old life and the birth of her new one.

Like a phoenix she will rise from the ashes, shiny and new.

"Shall we?" Hannibal asks, offering his arm to her.

She takes it unhesitatingly and lets him lead her from the bedroom and downstairs into the dining room.

The table is elaborately set, even moreso than usual, and Hannibal pulls a chair out for her directly across from his place setting.

"Do you need help with anything?" she offers.

"No, of course not. You are the guest of honor, just relax and let me serve you."

Hannibal sweeps away into the kitchen leaving Abigail on her own. Fidgety, she reaches out to inspect the table centerpiece. She recognizes figs and split open pomegranates among the contents, but she can't place the red flowers. She rubs a velvety petal between her fingers.

She swears she recognizes it from  _something_.

"Red Anemone," Hannibal pronounces, startling her as he reenters the dining room carrying their first course.

"From Greek mythology," Abigail says, more for herself than Hannibal, releasing the petal.

"You know the story?"

Abigail nods and recounts it as Hannibal serves them.

"Adonis, loved by both Aphrodite and Persephone, was out hunting alone one day when he wounded a fierce boar. Enraged the animal stabbed him with its tusks. Aphrodite heard the cries of her lover and went running to him, but it was too late, and red anemones sprouted from where the drops of Adonis' blood fell."

Hannibal nods approvingly as he takes his seat across from her.

"Christians later adopted the symbolism of the anemone," he adds. "The red representing the blood of Christ. These flowers are often depicted in paintings of the Crucifixion."

_Blood. Death. Resurrection._

_Is everything in his house a metaphor?_

Abigail looks down at her plate and finds a bowl of what looks like mushroom soup. Her face must betray her thoughts because Hannibal chuckles lightly.

"No psychedelic mushrooms this time, Abigail. I assure you."

She smiles sheepishly and picks up her spoon.

"It's delicious," she insists.

They eat in silence, and Abigail can feel Hannibal studying her every move. She is careful to keep her back straight, displaying perfect posture, and tries to hold his gaze whenever she catches him watching, but ultimately ends up being the one to look away first.

When they start on the second course, some type of sausage and pepper dish, Hannibal tells Abigail about his day.

He visited Will in the hospital, and apparently Will is doing remarkably well despite the gunshot wound Jack inflicted. The doctors, however, have discovered that Will is suffering from encephalitis and think that may have been a contributing factor in his erratic behavior.

Abigail listens patiently, but can't help but wonder if Hannibal knew about Will's condition. The way he speaks about it, so casual, makes her think he did know. If he had missed something as big as this, she doubts he would sound so nonchalant.

 _He's been planning this for Will for a while now,_  she realizes.  _How long has he been planning… whatever this is, for me?_

"What is your plan for me?" she blurts, accidentally interrupting whatever else Hannibal had been saying about Will.

"Sorry," she apologizes. "I just… can't stand this not knowing. You said you wanted to reinvent me. What does that mean? What is wrong with me the way I am?"

Abigail knows she is being dangerously rude, but she's feeling a bit reckless.

Hannibal sips his wine leisurely before responding.

"I do no think there is anything  _wrong_  with you, Abigail. I just want you to see what I see. You have so much potential in you. I merely wish to help you unlock it."

She refrains from rolling her eyes at the ambiguous answer.

"What about after that?" she asks. "When you've finished 'unlocking my potential'? What happens? The world thinks I am dead. I can never return to my old life. Am I expected to spend the rest of my days in this house? You said I wasn't a prisoner."

"You aren't a prisoner. I am protecting you."

 _Yeah, and yourself,_  she thinks bitterly.

"You will start a new life," Hannibal tells her. "I have a contact who forges records for people. I've already hired him to create one for you. A whole new identity. You will have a history, a birth certificate, passport, and even a social security number. This forger is so good you could apply for a job with the FBI, like you once said you wanted, and they wouldn't be able to prove you were anyone but who you said you were."

Abigail's eyes widen and she feels a small spark of hope in her chest.

"I can start over?"

"Yes, Abigail, you can start over, but you must let me help you first."

They fall back into silence after that, not speaking aside from Hannibal explaining each course and Abigail complimenting it. After they finish dessert, chocolate silk pie with fresh made whipped crème, Hannibal escorts Abigail into his study.

They sit on a loveseat by the fireplace, arms and legs pressed against one another, leaving Abigail feeling even more exposed than earlier. Hannibal's eyes are burning into her and she shivers under their weight.

She looks up to meet his gaze.

"You said you want to help me unlock my potential," she says quietly. "How do you plan to do that?"

Hannibal takes a long time to reply, reaching over to take Abigail's hand, and tracing her fingers with his own. Goosebumps prickle her skin and she finds herself thankful of the long sleeves hiding them.

"Tell me about the girls," he finally answers.

"The girls?"

"The girls you helped your father catch and kill."

"W—what about them?" she asks startled.

"How did you select them?"

"I didn't, he did… because they looked like me."

"Did that make you feel guilty?"

"You know it did," she says, getting angry.

"But not guilty enough to stop?"

Abigail pulls her hand from his.

"If I hadn't helped him, he would have killed  _me!_  It was about survival."

"Was killing Nick Boyle about survival?"

"At the time I believed it was," she says quietly.

"How did it feel killing him? Did it make you feel powerful?"

Abigail stands up and walks across the room, her back to Hannibal. She pretends to study the spines of the books on his shelves, trailing a finger across them.

She can hear his footsteps behind her; feel his breath on her neck as he speaks.

"How did it make you feel?"

"I felt vindicated," she answers. "At the time I thought he murdered my best friend."

Turning to face Hannibal, Abigail's breath catches in her throat. He's much closer than she anticipated. She takes an involuntary step backwards, her spine pressed against the bookshelf.

"I suppose I wasn't though, since it was you who killed Marissa," she says.

Hannibal places a hand against the bookshelf, just over her shoulder, and leans in.

"How would you feel killing me then?" he asks, tone low. "Would you feel  _vindicated_?"

Abigail swallows loudly as she meets his dark stare.

_Would I? He killed Marissa. He ruined Will's life. He's taken mine._

"I would feel… lonely. Not just because you are the only person who knows I'm still alive, but because you know  _me_. You know every dark thing about me and you don't care. You know I'm a monster, but you are still here."

"Some monsters play well with others. Perhaps ours are compatible."

Hannibal leans in even closer, his eyes drifting closed, and Abigail can hear alarm bells ringing in her head.

When his lips graze hers it's like an electric shock zaps through her body. Abigail inhales sharply, her lips parting and giving him the opening he needs to deepen the kiss. Despite her will to not surrender, Abigail's eyes close and she feels herself leaning into Hannibal.

His hand comes up to caress her shoulder and she shivers. Hannibal smiles and nips at her lower lip. He traces his index finger along her collarbone and up to her scar. Her skin burns when he touches the angry slash on her neck and she gasps, her arms flying up automatically to push him away.

She covers her scar with her own hand. She knows it didn't actually hurt when he touched hurt, but it felt like an invasion nonetheless.

"Abigail—" Hannibal starts, voice surprisingly apologetic, but she doesn't wait to hear what he has to say.

Abigail slips past Hannibal and marches upstairs, heading for her room, her head a mess of confused, swirling emotions.

She's pleased that Hannibal doesn't follow her, not sure if she wants to talk to him or not.

_Had he meant what he said about wanting to help me start a new life? Or was it all just a line?_

Abigail closes her door loudly behind her and immediately tears her dress off. She slips back into her robe and seats herself in front of the vanity to take down her hair.

She's just started to clean the make-up from her face when there is a light tapping on her door.

She doesn't answer, but Hannibal opens it anyway, standing formally in the doorway watching her.

"Abigail, please forgive my behavior downstairs. That was extremely rude of me. I never intended for that to happen."

Abigail still doesn't reply.

"I hope you can forgive me. Good night," he says, and closes the door, locking it behind him.

Abigail sighs and stares at her own reflection. It's not that she's mad at Hannibal, not really… she's mad at herself, over her reaction to his kiss.

_How can I stay a step ahead and play this game if I lose myself like that?_

When she climbs into bed she finds herself wondering if he really slipped up when he kissed her, or if this is just another part of his game?

After finally managing to fall asleep, it doesn't take Abigail long to slip into a nightmare; all the talk tonight of the dead girls and Nick Boyle opening old wounds.

She wakes up to Hannibal shaking her.  She must have been screaming.

"Abigail! It's just a dream. Wake-up!"

When she finally opens her eyes there are tears streaming down her face and she throws herself into his arms, realizing too late Hannibal is shirtless and she is cuddling his bare chest.

The ghosts of her nightmare linger on her peripheral vision, not daring to attack with Hannibal present.

"Are you all right now?" he asks, stroking her hair.

"Please don't go," she begs, hating her weakness. "Don't leave me with them. Please."

"Shh," he soothes. "I'll stay."

Abigail finds herself snuggled securely against Hannibal's chest once again, blankets pulled up around them. She clings to him, too relieved to be ashamed, and slips into dreamless slumber.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**   Reviews are much appreciated, as always!  On a side note I just wanted to give a heads up I may not get another chapter up next week (though I will try).  I'm getting ready to move 1300 miles cross country and my schedule from Monday until next Sunday is a little hectic.  I'm also in the process of promoting an original story of mine being published in July.  For more information please check out my official website [www.ameythistmoreland.com](http://www.ameythistmoreland.com) Thank you!

 


	8. Chapter Eight

Hannibal wakes before Abigail the next morning, a stray lock of her hair is tickling his nose and he blows slightly to displace it.

Her delicate fingers are curled into his sparse chest hair, her head nestled against his shoulder, and one of her legs tossed atop his, yet despite all this Hannibal knows he could slip away without Abigail waking.

If he wanted to, that is.

Hannibal doesn't want to, though. He wants to see how she will react when she finds him still there with her.

_Will she be grateful I kept her nightmares away? Will she remember asking me not to leave her? Will she be embarrassed by her need? Will she still be upset after what happened in the study last night?_

He waits patiently, staring at Abigail's face, studying all the minute expressions that cross it. Even in sleep her uncertainty shines through, her face scrunching up, and her fingers holding tighter to his chest.

When she finally starts to stir, Hannibal closes his eyes and feigns sleep.

He can feel her heart rate speed up, and hear her tiny intake of breath when she becomes fully conscious. Her grip loosens on him immediately.

Hannibal expects her to slowly untangle herself from him, but instead Abigail jerks away and jumps out of bed, rushing for the bathroom.

The door clicks locked behind her.

Sighing quietly, Hannibal sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

_Well, that wasn't nearly as helpful as I had hoped,_  he thinks, annoyance prickling the back of his neck.  _Though I would say she is leaning towards 'embarrassment'._

He's about to stand up when something on her nightstand catches his eye.

Hannibal reaches out and picks up the sketch Abigail had been working on the other day. It's the self-portrait, the one that had portrayed her alone in the dark, except now it seems Abigail has amended it.

Hannibal is now depicted standing behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder.

He can't help but smirk, a look he still wears ten minutes later as he makes his way downstairs to prepare breakfast.

Abigail sits in self-loathing on the floor, her back against the bathroom door. She's cursing her weakness, and her own mind for not being able to overcome her nightmares. She doesn't know why Hannibal is able to drive them away, if it is actually him or just the presence of another person.

She suspects that it really is just Hannibal, and it makes her even more upset with herself.

_You're playing a game. You aren't supposed to actually grow to depend on him!_

She drums her fingers on her knee, thinking.

_Maybe I'm only even having nightmares because I'm being held captive by a serial killer._

_Except it's not him haunting your dreams is it,_ a defiant voice argues,  _it's_ your  _victims._

Abigail grits her teeth.

_I will play along. Earn his trust. And I will overcome these nightmares on my own._

She takes a few deep, calming breaths, and climbs to her feet.

In the bedroom she finds Hannibal has laid clothing out for her once again. A pair of grey dress pants, a white blouse, and a blue cashmere cardigan.

While she resents having her clothing picked for her, as if she were a child, Abigail is thankful for the layers. They almost feel like armor.

She briefly wonders if he did it on purpose.

_Of course he did, he never does anything without purpose._

He also left her door wide open.

After dressing, Abigail stands right inside the threshold of her room, chewing her bottom lip and wondering if this is another test.

She knows he is still home. There are faint noises from downstairs.

One foot ready to step out, she hears footsteps on the stairs. Abigail's heart skips and she rushes over to her vanity to pretend she's brushing her hair.

"Abigail?" Hannibal calls from her door. "Breakfast is ready."

She places her brush back on the vanity and turns to give him a small smile.

"After you," she says, and follows him down the stairs.

Breakfast is rather subdued after all their talk last night. Neither of them brings up the kiss or Abigail's nightmare, settling into a silent agreement not to discuss it.

They talk briefly of Will. Hannibal says he will be transferred from the county hospital soon and to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane where he will await trial.

He says he believes Will has a good chance of avoiding the death penalty, and Abigail feels her breakfast turn to lead in her stomach. She doesn't know why she never realized that was a possibility.

"Is… is there anything you can do?" she asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Is there anything you can do to help Will?" She thinks carefully over her next words. "There are so few good people in the world, and I feel Will is one of them. I'm not saying we turn ourselves over, but there has got to be something. He deserves more."

"Abigail, you have a good heart," Hannibal tells her. "That is something that will only bring you trouble. Keep your compassions close, so they cannot be used against you."

It doesn't answer her question about helping Will, but she understands the topic is now closed.

When they finish eating Hannibal lets her help clear the table, and they do the dishes standing side by side.

"Breakfast was delicious," Abigail insists, taking a plate to dry. "As usual. It hardly feels I need to say so anymore, though I know it would be rude not to."

"And there is never an excuse for rudeness."

"I'm going to have to work out an exercise regime if you keep feeding me all of these delicious calories," she jokes.

"I'm sure we can find something physical to get your blood pumping," Hannibal chuckles.

Abigail finds herself blushing, and feels ridiculous.

"I used to jog. I don't suppose you have a treadmill?"

"No, but we will figure something out," he says turning to face her.

For the first time Abigail notices that her blue cardigan compliments Hannibal's suit. He dressed her to match him.

"Uh, is there anything else you need help with?"

"The dishes are done. I think that's it for now."

"May I be excused to my room?" she asks. "I'd really like to start on one of the books I borrowed."

"Of course. I'll walk you up."

"Oh, you don't—"

"I have some work to do at the office," he interrupts.

She suspects it is his subtle way of saying, 'I must lock you back in your cell.'

Abigail spends the day attempting to read and trying not to think about Will Graham. Neither is successful.

Over dinner Hannibal explains he'll be returning to his normal work hours soon, and she will be alone for large portions of time. He reassures her nothing will happen again like when he was forced to go to Virginia.

It doesn't reassure her much.

Before bed, Abigail takes a relaxing bath. She lets the warm water drain away all her tension. When she climbs into bed for the night, wearing yet another short baby-doll, she hopes the bath helped ease her enough to avoid the nightmares.

Abigail even does some breathing exercises she learned in group therapy, and attempts to clear her mind.

It doesn't work.

_The girls come for her anyway. Their bloated dead hands clawing at her skin, trying to pull Abigail into a pit of darkness with them… her father's voice echoing around her, begging her to come home._

_Join us._

She wakes to Hannibal calling her name, his hands stroking her face, trying to calm her.

She knows she shouldn't, but she can't help herself. Abigail sits up and throws herself into Hannibal's arms.

"Please?" she begs into his chest.

She doesn't even have to specify what she wants. Hannibal pulls her into his lap and scoots himself onto the bed. He lays back wrapping them both up in the warm comforter.

She falls back asleep with his hand in her hair, and his voice whispering, "hush."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I know it's been a while,and I sincerely apologize!  It's amazing how quickly your life can go from lazy days to hectic whirlwind... and to think I believed I'd have more time to write while my husband is in Korea.  Anyway, please forgive me! 

On another note... I MET MADS MIKKELSEN!! 

If you want to read my whole account (and see the other 4 pics I took with him) go [HERE](http://allons-ymrholmes.tumblr.com/post/96937064952/horrorhound-weekend-mads-post-w-lots-of-pics)


	9. Chapter Nine

Over the next two weeks Abigail and Hannibal fall into a pattern.

In the mornings he prepares them breakfast and they eat together in the dining room. Then Abigail tends to the dishes while Hannibal finishes getting ready for work.

While he is at the office Abigail is confined to her room, spending her time reading or sketching. Her drawer has been restocked with food in case Hannibal is ever called away without warning again; it's filled with more granola bars, trail mix, jerky, and dried fruits. At least a week's supply if she rations carefully. Abigail avoids thinking about it.

Hannibal prepares them both a packed lunch before he leaves so she doesn't have to use her emergency supplies.

When she hears his car pull up in the evening, Abigail can't prevent the little flutter of excitement that bubbles in her chest. She jumps from her bed, or wherever she had been anxiously perched, and checks her hair and make-up in the mirror.

_It's all part of the game,_  she tells herself half-heartedly.

Then she positions herself carefully on her bed, or at her vanity, and pretends to read or draw, waiting for Hannibal to call on her.

Most days he comes up straight away, inviting her down to help him prepare dinner. On others Abigail will hear him moving around downstairs preparing dinner on his own, then, when he does finally come for her she is led down to a beautifully prepared meal. Not that all of Hannibal's meals aren't beautifully prepared, but these are different.

They always end with a gift.

The first time, he gave her an oak box housing a new set of charcoal pencils for her sketching. After that it was an old book of poetry, and then small silver locket on a long delicate chain.

She quickly learned that on those days Hannibal didn't immediately come for, she should change. After the first gift, the next time he made her wait Abigail dressed in something a bit more formal.

Hannibal didn't say anything different from his usual compliments, but Abigail could tell by the glint in his eyes she had done the right thing.

After dinner they would retire to the study where Hannibal would tell her about his day, and ask her questions about hers. He'd pour her another glass of wine and sip his whiskey, listening to Abigail analyze whatever book of his she is currently reading.

They don't talk about Will, or the FBI. They don't talk about the kiss, or Abigail's nightmares.

Each night she climbs into bed, Abigail practices breathing exercises and tries to clear her mind. And each night she is hunted by her father and his victims until she wakes, clinging to Hannibal.

He doesn't say anything, just strokes her hair and holds her to his chest as he slips into bed with her.

He's gone before Abigail opens her eyes in the morning, his scent on her pillow the only sign he had been there at all.

It's just one more thing they don't talk about.

Before Abigail knows it, it's been almost a month since her "death". She can't decide if the time has flown by or trickled. The daily repetition has her muddled. She's started defining her actions into two categories: Spending Time With Hannibal, or Waiting For Hannibal.

Abigail knows she is growing too reliant on him, but takes solace in the fact that she recognizes that reliance, hoping that means she will be able to control it when the time comes.

Hannibal is aware of her inner struggle, perhaps not to the full extent of it, but he sees the concern flash in her eyes when she reaches out to him or complies with his requests without hesitation.

He's quite pleased with her progress.

She hasn't made any more attempts on her life, nor has she tried to escape. If anything, he would say she almost seems content.

_It's time for the next step,_  he decides.

 

After another night of nightmares and clinging to Hannibal, Abigail jerks awake with a gasp sitting straight up in bed.

Hannibal is nowhere to be seen, as usual, but something seems different this morning.

_There,_  she thinks, hearing a loud mechanical buzzing from downstairs. The sound must be what woke her.

She rubs her eyes and looks around the room, first noting the door is open, then her eyes come to rest at the end of her bed. Hannibal seems to have already set her clothing out for the day, another habit he's taken to.

Abigail gasps and scrambles to the foot of the bed to get a better look. She practically squeals in delight when she sees that he did, in fact, bring her a black and grey tracksuit. Leaning over the end of the bed she also finds matching tennis shoes.

She tosses the covers aside and jumps out of bed, not hesitating to tear her nightgown off over her head.

She's just managed to wiggle into her sports bra (a task more difficult than she remembers it being after all of the sitting around she's done in the last month adding almost half a cup size for her to work with), when she hears a creak in the hall.

"Oh, pardon," Hannibal says from the doorway.

Abigail feels herself flush as his eyes graze over her. She finds herself checking him over too.

_Hannibal Lecter… in workout clothing._

Abigail wasn't aware that was something she needed to see in life until it was right in front of her.

His tracksuit compliments hers, just like all the other clothing he picks.

Then, whether it's a second later or minutes she can't say, he steps back and out of sight past the door.

She tries to ignore her embarrassment and focus on possibilities these new clothes could come with… on anything that isn't the way his jacket hugged his shoulders.

_Maybe he'll take me jogging! What I wouldn't do to go outside…_

Once she has her clothes on she sits on the end of the bed to pull her tennis shoes on.

"I'm decent," she says softly.

Hannibal steps back into the doorway and waits for her to finish lacing up her shoes. He's holding two insulated cups.

"I made protein shakes," he says, holding one out to her.

_Must have been the blender that woke me,_  she thinks, standing up to take the drink.

"Thank you."

Abigail is eager to know what his plans are for the day, and realizes today must be a Saturday if he isn't already preparing for work. She wants to question him, but refrains and sips her shake instead.

"It's really good," she remarks.

"I thought we could have a quick breakfast and get to work."

"What do you have in mind?" Abigail asks, unable to resist.

"You'll see," he says slyly. "Follow me."

Abigail chews her bottom lip to keep herself from bursting into a face splitting smile.

Hannibal leads her downstairs towards the front door…  _past the door_ … and into the kitchen. He opens his pantry and then stoops down to lift a wooden hatch, leading into what must be the basement.

_Okay… this is like the exact opposite of outside._

Her mood plummets.

Hannibal descends the stairs and Abigail reluctantly follows. When she reaches the bottom she sucks in a sharp breath, and feels the cold tendrils of fear trickle through her veins.

She's in Hannibal's murder room.

The wall across from her has over a dozen assorted tools hanging on it. There is a table situated just over a sewage drain. Plastic sheeting, like you'd find in a walk in cooler, hangs around the room.

Abigail takes two fumbling steps back, preparing to bolt up the stairs.

Hannibal hasn't noticed her terror; he's walking off across the room towards… a home gym.

Her breath comes rushing out as she realizes she's not about to be murdered, today anyway. She hurries across the room to catch up with Hannibal, urging her heartbeat to slow down.

Hannibal walks her over to a large gym mat and stands in the middle.

"Time to start," he says.

"Start what?" she asks, her voice betraying her nerves.

"Your training." 

* * *

**Author's Note:** Two updates in one week!  I felt like I owed it to you after that long break.  Please let me know what you think!  Reviews are my lifeblood.  


	10. Chapter Ten

"My training?" Abigail asks, still confused.

Hannibal takes Abigail's protein shake and sets it on the ground next to his, beside the training mat.

"You are a hunter," he says, stepping up in front of her, "you've been a lure, and you have also been prey. I want to teach you how to defend yourself, how to attack… and how to win."

_That would have been useful a month ago,_  she thinks.

As if sensing her thoughts, Hannibal smirks at her.

"Now, when I brought you here from your parents house you were weak from blood loss and didn't have much of a chance of showing me what you know. Do you have any defense training?" he questions.

"I—I took a couple sessions on self-defense at the Y after… after my dad started talking about how he didn't want to have to kill me."

Hannibal nods.

"Rudimentary," he says, "but let's see what you remember."

"Alright, well—" Abigail starts, but gets cut off.

Without warning Hannibal lunges at her. He stretches out and grabs hold of her wrist, yanking her towards him.

Hannibal uses her weight against her, spinning Abigail so her back is flat against his chest. He still has hold of her wrist, pulling her right arm across her torso to pin her left. His free arm comes up and he presses his forearm to her throat.

"Tsk, tsk," he chastises, his lips against her ear. "I had hoped for a little better."

"You didn't give me… any warning," she argues, struggling for breath with him pressing on her windpipe.

"Do you think a real attacker will give you warning?"

She doesn't answer; it's becoming too hard to breath.

"Come now," Hannibal insists, "you are running out of time to break my hold. You'll pass out soon unless you get away."

Abigail struggles uselessly against his hold.

"I though you took self-defense?" he goads.

Black spots are prickling her vision as Abigail tries to recall her classes.

Grunting, Abigail stomps down as hard as she can on Hannibal's toes. He doesn't let go, but his grip on her throat does loosen. She uses this to her advantage, leaning away from him, into his arm, and then throwing her head back.

He's too tall for her to connect with his nose, as would be ideal, but she does bust him in the mouth and he immediately lets go of her, his hand coming up to cup his face.

Abigail scurries away, gasping for breath. She turns to face him, crouching slightly, ready to bolt if he makes another lunge.

Hannibal makes no move to attack again, and when he lowers his hand Abigail sees it is covered in blood.

"Excellent," he says, smiling despite the huge split in his lip.

Abigail tries to return his smile, but doubts she accomplishes anything even close.

"Let's try again."

 

She's not sure how long they spend down there, but when they finally emerge form the basement Abigail is sore and covered in welts and bruises.

She also feels exhilarated.

Yes, Hannibal's methods may be a bit unorthodox… or a lot unorthodox… but Abigail feels like she's learned more in one day of work with him than in the several classes she took.

After they both take hot showers, Hannibal prepares them lunch. Abigail tries to remain as polite as possible, but can't help scarfing her meal down. Their workout really worked up her appetite.

Since lunch is always less formal, Abigail is sitting to Hannibal's right instead of across from him. When he finishes his meal, he frowns and sets his napkin on the table.

He leans over towards her, and reaches up to run his fingers over neck. His touch is light and gentle, and Abigail feels her stomach flutter.

"Does it hurt?" he asks. "It looks quite red."

"No," she replies, "not really. Does that?"

Abigail shifts closer to him and brushes the pad of her thumb over the cut in Hannibal's lip.

"Not really."

Abigail has a sudden flash of being younger and believing it when told "a kiss will make it better." She can't help the blush that comes to her cheeks.

"When can we do it again? Uh— the t-training," she stutters, clarifying more for herself than for Hannibal.

He sits back in his chair, the sudden absence of his fingers on her neck leaving her feeling…  _feeling what?_ Her own hand drops limply into her lap and she tries to ignore the traitorous thoughts in her head telling her things she doesn't want to hear.

"I suppose we can continue tomorrow. If you are up for it that is. You are going to be very sore tomorrow. I've let you be inactive for too long."

"I'll be sure to take a nice hot soak after dinner tonight," she says, eager to continue training.

There was something so exhilarating about it. Not just finally moving and working her muscles, but learning new ways to protect herself.

_To survive._

"Ah, that reminds me," Hannibal says, "I won't be here for dinner tonight. Is there anything special you would like?"

"Why won't you be here?" she asks, ignoring his question.

"I have plans with Dr. Bloom tonight."

"Is it… like a work thing?"

"No. I'm escorting her to a new art gallery opening," he replies, his face unreadable.

"Oh."

Abigail can't ignore the twisting in her stomach. She tells herself she's just nervous about being left alone again.

"Anything special you would like for dinner?"

She stares down at her lap, her fingers fidgeting.

"No. Whatever you decide will be fine."

 

Hours later, Abigail is sitting in her room pouting, there really is no other word for it, while Hannibal gets ready for his evening out.

She's thumbing through the book of poetry he gave her when Hannibal knocks lightly on her door.

"Come in," she sighs.

When he opens the door, the book she's holding falls closed completely forgotten in wake of Hannibal Lecter wearing a tuxedo.

Abigail is chewing her lip, trying to decide if she prefers Hannibal in work out clothing, three-piece suits, or a tux better.

"Abigail?"

"Huh?"

Hannibal is staring at her with a bemused expression and she realizes he must have repeated her name a few times.

"Sorry," she mumbles, ignoring the burning in her cheeks. "I was just thinking about a poem. What did you say?"

"I said I feel bad for leaving you on your own tonight, so I have a surprise for you."

She sits up straighter, a smile on her lips.

Hannibal is holding a covered tray, and has his laptop tucked under his arm. He crosses the room and places the tray on Abigail's bed, then dramatically removes the cover.

"Pizza!"

Abigail can't help but exclaim. Ever since she's come into this house Hannibal has fed her an array of gourmet foods, most of which she can barely pronounce. While it has been delicious, she  _is_ still a teenage girl.

It looks like a homemade personal pizza, thin crust painstakingly rolled out and topped with chunky tomato sauce, fresh slices of mozzarella, and shredded pepperoni. Next to it there is a giant gooey brownie and Abigail practically salivates at the sight.

"Thank you," she says, "this looks delicious."

"I also brought you this," Hannibal tells her, offering his laptop up. "I rented a movie I thought you might enjoy. It's already in the drive."

Abigail climbs off the end of the bed and wraps her arms around Hannibal, giving him a grateful hug. It's the first real contact they've had (aside from their unacknowledged night time cuddling) since the night he kissed her.

It isn't until after he leaves, Abigail starts to question why she did it. He brought her a pizza and a movie… it's not like he gave her free reign of the house.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I wasn't sure how I felt about cutting it right here, so... how about 2 chapters tonight?


	11. Chapter Eleven

Despite being "Hannibal Homemade Gourmet" the pizza still tastes like pizza and Abigail relishes in the treat. The only thing that could make it better is a bottle of coke, but Hannibal detests all forms of soda pop. She can't help but laugh at the image of Hannibal going into a 7-11 and buying her twenty-ounce soda.

_About as likely as him bringing home a box of hohos._

She does however find herself surprised when she pulls up the movie he rented for her. Abigail expects to find some weird foreign or art house film and is instead amused to find some romantic comedy that's just been released.

_Pizza, chocolate, and a chick flick? He's got to be up to something,_  she thinks. Then unable to shut her brain up,  _he's probably up to "something" with Dr. Bloom right now._

Abigail's not sure why the thought makes her skin prickle with discomfort and she ignores it, pressing play on the film.

 

Hannibal picks Alana up at her home, arriving precisely when he said he would. He's pleased to find she is ready when he gets there, and the two set out to the art opening.

She asks about his split lip and he says slipped in the shower.

Alana looks stunning, as usual, but she wears a thin veil of sadness that looks odd on her fair features. He knows she's still thinking of Will.

They don't discuss Will, though Hannibal senses Alana comes very close to it several times. Tonight is about taking their minds off of their loss. Will and, for Alana at least, Abigail. They discuss the art and Hannibal makes sure to note which one is Alana's favorite, deciding to surprise her with it later.

At the end of the evening Hannibal walks Alana to her door, then takes her hand and bows to kiss it.

When he glances up at her he knows she would let him inside. All he would have to do is give her the signal. She's eager for the distraction.

His thoughts drift to his ward, waiting for him at home… possibly drowning in night terrors and calling out for him.

"Goodnight, Alana."

 

The movie leaves Abigail feeling frustrated and lonely. It was cute, and funny, and sweet… but it just made her realize how long it's been since she's held someone in  _that_  way.

Checking the time on the computer screen Abigail sees that it's late, but not  _too_ late. She's not sure how long art openings usually last, but she has this annoying knot in her stomach telling her it doesn't matter, Hannibal and Alana will probably be busy no matter what.

After testing the internet connection and finding Hannibal must have turned off the wifi, Abigail decides to go to bed.

She changes, brushes her teeth and hair, and slips beneath her covers. The bathroom door is cracked, the light still on, bathing her room in a light glow. She couldn't bring herself to turn it off, knowing Hannibal isn't home yet.

Falling asleep is difficult when you know the nightmares are waiting, and no one is around to save you from them.

Abigail tries to think of anything but her nightmares, her mind settling on the movie she just watched. Her feeling of loneliness returns, bringing with it a sense of frustration she hasn't felt in a while.

_At least this is something I can handle on my own,_  she thinks.

Her hand disappears beneath the blankets, running slowly down the silky material of her nightgown. She pulls the material up and out of the way and her fingers slip into the bad of her underwear.

Abigail licks her lips as she begins to explore, re-familiarizing herself with… well  _herself._

It feels good, but it's not quite enough.

Her eyes drift closed and she imagines the handsome face of the male lead from the movie.

_Still not…_

_Dark eyes are staring at her from a face made of stone. Unreadable except for the smallest twitch of the lips… those lips. They were so soft and warm, so contradicting of the man who kissed her. They were also demanding and knew just what to do._

Abigail bites her lip as tingles start to spread throughout her.

_Safe, strong arms, protecting her, holding her against that firm bare chest. Those hands caressing her, giving her everything she needs._

_It's too hot!_  Abigail pushes the blankets away with her free hand, loving the way her skin prickles against the cool air.

_Those hands, grabbing her, pushing her, and working her harder. Pinning her to the mat in the basement as she tries to break his hold._

_She imagines those hands replacing hers._

"Uhhh," she pants, so very close. "Han… Hanni-ahhh!"

Abigail lies there catching her breath, her nightgown still disheveled pushed up past her navel, and her hand still in the waistband of her underwear.

The lock to her bedroom door clicks, and her stomach jumps to her throat. She just has time to pull her hand from her panties when Hannibal is illuminated standing in her door.

"Are you al—?" he starts.

"N—Nightmare," Abigail interrupts, still trying to catch her breath as she fixes her nighty.

He doesn't say anything for a while and she's sure he must know she's lying.

"Would you like me to stay?" he finally asks.

Her cheeks are on fire, she's so embarrassed by where her thoughts wandered, but she also wants him to stay with her.

"Please?" she asks, barely more than a whisper.

"I'll be back," he says, wandering away down the hall to change.

When Hannibal returns he doesn't hesitate climbing into bed beside her. Abigail feels a little strange about it, though, this is the first time she's been fully awake and not recovering from a nightmare when she's asked him to stay.

He has no such reservations and wraps an arm around her, pulling her close so her head rests on his shoulder.

She's still feeling embarrassed, positive he knows what she just did.

_He can probably smell it on me_.

"How was the art opening?" she asks, wondering if she should.

"It was quite nice," he replies without hesitation.

"And how was Dr.  _Bloom_?"

She can't quite keep the derision from her tone and bites her cheek as soon as the words leave her mouth.

"She was distracted. While she may not have said it, her thoughts were clearly centered on Will."

Abigail smiles.

"Did you have any favorite pieces tonight?" she asks, mood lifted.

"A few."

"Describe them to me."

She's not sure how long they lie like that, talking back and forth, before she finally drifts off.

He doesn't press her about her nightmare, but he doesn't call her out on lying either, which Abigail takes as a good sign and leaves her feeling relieved. She'd be mortified if he really did know what was going on in the room just before he'd entered.

Her relief is short lived.

Abigail wakes the next morning to find Hannibal gone, as usual, but notices a new addition to her nightstand.

A red vibrating bullet.

* * *

**Author's Note:** A little hint of naughty time to come. I just don't want to rush these two. Please, please, please review! I really love hearing your guys' feedback (especially since this is such a small ship).


	12. Chapter Twelve

Abigail is mortified.

_He knows. He knows! He was probably right outside the door, listening… hearing me call his name._

The twinge of arousal she feels at the thought is quickly overshadowed by her colossal embarrassment.

When she sees another tracksuit at the foot of her bed, Abigail groans and pulls the blankets over her head.

_I don't even want to have to look at him today, let alone train!_

She hears the blender whirring from the kitchen and forces herself to get out of bed. The red vibrator is so prominent, she can't just ignore it, even though she wants to pretend it doesn't exist.

After debating leaving the thing out in the open, Abigail decides against it and tucks it into her bedside drawer, dropping it as if it burns her.

It's not as if she's never owned a vibrator before, but the implications of  _this_ one makes her want to hide.

_He gave this to me because he_  knows… _and because he wants me to use it? Or is this another psychological game?_

Something else occurs to her.

_He had to have already had this on hand. It's not like he got up early, found a sex shop that is open at 6 a.m., and browsed around to find a toy._

Shaking her head, Abigail tries not to think about the possibilities. That either Hannibal gave her a second hand toy he had on hand, or he bought it for her a while ago and had been waiting for the right moment to give it to her.

She dresses quickly and pulls her hair into a high pony. She's growing more accustomed to letting her neck and ear remain exposed. In fact, she hardly even thinks about it any more.

Her door is unlocked. Taking a deep breath, Abigail heads downstairs to face him.

Hannibal is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter casually, a protein shake in hand.

"Good Morning, Abigail."

"Morning," she mumbles, not meeting his eyes.

"I made you a shake."

"Thank you."

Abigail sees her cup on the counter nearest her and picks it up. She's not particularly hungry, but drinking it gives her an excuse not to talk.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Hannibal asks.

In his voice, she can hear it, and Abigail glances up. He's smirking at her. His eyes glinting as he studies her over the top of his cup.

_He's teasing me._

"I'm feeling great, thank you. Very…  _refreshed,"_ she answers defiantly, refusing to be beaten down.

She's faced many terrible things and survived. It sure as hell won't be  _embarrassment_  that gets the best of her.

"Good. I was worried you might be too sore to train today. You've been cooped up for a while, and yesterday was quite a work out," he says.

"I can manage," she replies, then downs the rest of her breakfast. "I'm ready when you are."

"Let's go."

Hannibal leads her into the basement for the second day in a row, only this time Abigail doesn't get that sense of doom she felt before. She knows she is safe, well, as safe as anyone can be around Hannibal, but even if that weren't the case she's too distracted by her anger to feel anything else.

"I was going to set you up on the treadmill today, but I know you won't be  _satisfied_  working on your own. I am supposed to be teaching you, after all."

His tone is light, but Abigail's heard enough of his cannibal puns to know he's still taunting her. She clenches her fists by her side.

"Hand to hand," he continues, "combat that is, is often sloppy. I can teach you how to be graceful, how to reach your goal."

"Oh, I don't know," she says, her annoyance getting the best of her. "I think I've pretty well figured out how to reach my goal."

"Show me," Hannibal insists, his cocky grin making her stomach twist. "Your goal is to beat me."

He crouches into a fighting stance, that bastard grin still on his face. Abigail grits her teeth, determination calming her nerves.

She knows he'll make the first move. Hannibal may be graceful, and quick, but he relies upon his brute strength most of the time. It is here Abigail has the advantage; she's much faster than him.

Hannibal lunges out, much like he had yesterday when they first started, unlike yesterday, however, Abigail is ready for it and she dodges him by jumping to the side.

She circles behind him and kicks at the back of his knee. Her foot connects right as Hannibal is turning to face her. He grunts, but the strike doesn't slow him down and Abigail falls backwards as she tries to scurry out of reach.

She lands hard on her butt, there is no time to feel pain, as Hannibal is advancing on her. Abigail pushes herself backwards across the floor with her legs.

Her back hits the wall behind her. It's the wall with all the various tools on it.

"You've backed yourself into a corner, Abigail."

She climbs to her feet.

"Not a bad corner to be in," she says, smirking.

Twisting around, Abigail grabs the first weapon her hand comes in contact with, a butcher's knife.

"Tsk, tsk," Hannibal chastises, "are you sure you're ready to incorporate weapons into your training?"

"Let's find out together."

This time it is Abigail who lunges forward, slashing erratically with the butcher's knife. Hannibal dodges her, left then right, sidestepping her like a dancer following an intricate melody only he can hear.

Anger reaching a boiling point sends Abigail rushing forward, feigning right but jumping at him as he dodges left.

The force of her body hitting him sends Hannibal falling backwards. He lands flat on the ground, with Abigail sitting perched above him. Her knees are tucked into either side of his waist and she is leaning down over him, the butcher's knife pressed to his throat.

"I know how to reach my goal," she spits.

Hannibal's hands twitch and Abigail presses harder with the knife, warning him to give up.

"With a little assistance from your accessory there," he remarks, glancing towards the knife, still teasing her.

Abigail growls in frustration.

"I beat you," she grinds out through clenched teeth.

"One thing you need to remember about weapons," Hannibal says, leaning his head upwards, pressing his neck into the blade.

Abigail gasps when she sees the blood and she pulls the knife back. Hannibal uses this to his advantage, his hand shoots up and wraps around her fingers holding the weapon. He then uses his weight to roll them to the side, and before she knows it, Abigail is pinned beneath him.

She tries to push back as he maneuvers the knife so it is now against her throat, but he is too strong.

"You have to be able to use them," Hannibal finishes, his dark eyes burning into her blue ones.

Despite the cold steel to her throat, Abigail is more aware of the warmth… the warmth of Hannibal's body on top of hers. The way her legs are wrapped around his waist suddenly feels very intimate, and she becomes very aware of how labored her breathing is.

He's breathing hard too, she can hear it, and she can feel his heart pounding against her chest. Abigail wets her lips and glances at his mouth, slightly parted almost calling to her.

Hannibal releases her hand and Abigail throws the butcher's knife away. As if of their own accord her hands reach out for Hannibal, she wraps her arms around him and pulls him closer.

When their lips meet it isn't sweet, or romantic, it's just another battle. Both of them fighting to get closer, to feel  _more_. Abigail moans against his mouth and Hannibal nips at her bottom lip. His hand roams up her side to cup her breast, and she arches up against him.

She feels as if she is standing on the edge of a blazing pit, the warmth she feels now is the promise of more to come and all she wants is to throw herself into the flames.

To be consumed.

His mouth leaves her lips, and like last time he trails kisses along her jaw and down her neck, only this time when he reaches her scar she doesn't pull away. She leans into him and moans louder.

_This. This is all I want,_ she thinks, twining her fingers in his hair.  _All I need is— all I need is my freedom._

"No, no," she whimpers, unconvincingly.

His thumb is tracing circles on her nipple, teasing her through her jacket and sports bra.

"No!" she says more forcefully, and his ministrations stop.

His head rests against her neck a moment longer before he pulls back and looks down at her.

She can see the fire raging in his eyes and suspects hers are mirror image.

"I— I just can't," she says, pushing against his chest.

Hannibal rolls off of her to lie on the floor beside her.

"Why do you fight me, Abigail?" Hannibal asks after several minutes of silence.

She almost thinks he sounds sad.

The words don't come, at least not ones she can admit to him.

_What can I say? It's not like I can tell him I'm afraid if I give myself over to him I'll be lost? That I'll no longer be able to fight against what he wants me to become?_

She doesn't say anything.

When he realizes she isn't going to answer, Hannibal stands up and heads for the stairs. He pauses at the bottom and she hopes he won't ask any more questions, or she might break.

Instead he surprises her.

"Will's trial starts tomorrow."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Now we're catching up to season 2... Please review and let me know what you think!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Hannibal focuses heavily on getting ready for Will's trial, trying to think of anything but his waning patience for the women in his life.

He's furious and, begrudgingly, a bit impressed with Bedelia. In truth, Hannibal knows it is his fault. He flew too close, revealed too much, and let her see him too clearly. She made her deductions and decided to step back, knowing what that would drive him to. Bedelia is a clever woman, though, and she knew better than to wait around for him to call on her.

Then there is Alana, a smart and beautiful woman, who is letting Will's arrest and impending trial take over her entire life. Hannibal admires her dedication to her friend, but she is neglecting other aspects of her life, something he finds deplorable. You should never settle for one hobby. Life is too precious to be wasted.

Finally, there is Abigail, his growing-stronger-every-day protégé. She surprises him in so many ways, and maddens him in so many others. Hannibal was thrilled when he discovered how adept she was at fighting already. Though, her skills come mostly from anger and determination rather than training. She lacks finesse, and that is something he intends to rectify.

Hannibal has a gift for reading people, and he supposes this is where his anger towards Abigail comes from… she  _confuses him_. In ways no one has quite managed before.

She is giving him  _very_  mixed signals.

When he kissed her in the study, Abigail shoved him away and stormed off. Yet, two nights ago on his way to his room, Hannibal could hear her panting his name.

When he opened the door to find her, hand in her knickers, chest heaving, and skin glistening in the moonlight, it took every ounce of his self-control not to march over and just  _take_ her.

Then, while training in the basement, the air around them seemed to fill with sparks and she kissed him. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, urging them closer, and  _moaned_  into his mouth.

He can still feel the swell of her supple breast against his palm.

But then she said, "no" and the spell was broken.

The worst part is that Hannibal swears her reasoning is  _there_  just in front of him, but he's too blind to see it. Abigail has blinded him.

Branded him.

It's as if he stared into brilliant light and turned away. He may be surrounded by darkness, but that light is still seared into his vision and he sees it no matter where he looks.

Hannibal is not fond of the feeling.

_Okay, that's not entirely true._

He's always seen the potential in Abigail, the strength she possesses. He knows without a doubt she is a survivor. He's always known she could be an ideal companion.

What Hannibal didn't expect, was the emotions she would evoke… feelings he hasn't had since his youth.

He was supposed to be in control here, not her. He's just thankful she hasn't realized the hold she has over him.

After checking over his appearance and deeming himself "court appropriate", Hannibal goes downstairs, heading straight to the kitchen.

Abigail is just finishing washing the breakfast dishes. She insisted on doing it on her own, saying he should focus on getting ready for the trial.

She hasn't said anything about what happened during training.

He walks over and inspects the dishes appraisingly.

"Nice work," he compliments.

He wasn't actually concerned she did a subpar job; he just wants a reason to stand beside her.

"Thank you," she mumbles, staring at the ground.

Abigail studies their feet, not wanting to see his face when she speaks.

"I'm sorry," she tells his dress shoes. "About yesterday."

His feet shuffle closer, their toes just inches apart.

"Sorry for kissing me or sorry for stopping?" he questions, his voice dropping to that low persuasive tone he does so well.

"Sorry for—"

"Hannibal?"

Abigail's head shoots up and she meets Hannibal's gaze. He's wearing that calculating predatory mask, but she can still see the shade of surprise on his face. He wasn't expecting anyone.

"Hannibal?"

It's Alana's voice, and she is just outside the kitchen.

_She can't know I'm here!_ Abigail panics.

Abigail drops to her knees in front of Hannibal, just as she hears Alana's voice coming from the doorway of the kitchen.

From the lack of 'oh my god, Abigail, you're alive!' Abigail figures she moved fast enough so the kitchen island blocks her from view.

"I'm sorry for just walking in," the woman says, "I knocked and when you didn't answer I tried the handle. It was open. It was rude of me, I know."

"Nonsense. To what do I owe this pleasure?" Hannibal asks, glancing briefly down at Abigail.

She blushes brightly, just now picking up on the connotations of her position. If the flare in his eye is anything to go by, Hannibal is quite aware as well.

"I— I'm panicking," Alana's voice breaks. "I don't know how I am supposed to remain clinical and detached on that stand today, knowing Will's life lays in the balance of this trial."

Alana's heels click on the tile floor, and Hannibal steps forward, ushering Abigail backwards.

She backs up as far as she can, her shoulders flat against the island. Hannibal stands over her, leaning onto the counter top.

"You have to remind yourself that it is your clinical detachment that will save him," he says, his voice perfectly level, no hint that anything is amiss. "Your personal relationship and attachment will hinder Will. It may comfort him, but the jury will be more inclined to listen to a level-headed psychologist than a teary eyed ex-love interest."

"I know you're right," Alana says, sighing. "I'm just not sure how to shut my feelings down. How do you manage to stay so calm? You make yourself so… emotionless sometimes."

Hannibal steps back from Abigail and walks around the counter to join Alana, and Abigail pushes herself further into the counter.

"Don't mistake my calm for being emotionless," he says. "I am far from uncaring."

While in reality Hannibal takes Alana's hand, Abigail can't help but picture him cupping her cheek.

She is not fond of the image.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply— it's just… oh, Hannibal, what if he loses?"

Alana's voice cracks again and it is clear she's crying.

"Shh," Hannibal coos, "that won't happen. For years people have speculated about Will Graham and his capacity to even be allowed to teach, do you honestly think he will be blamed for something like this? On paper, at least, the blame lays squarely on Jack Crawford's doorstep… and mine. Will Graham will be just fine."

Alana sniffles.

"You're right, I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"Sorr—" Alana stops mid-breath and gives a watery laugh. "For the record, I don't think you are to blame. Jack put him out there, this is on him."

"We should be going, it wouldn't help either of our credibility to be late the first day of court," Hannibal insists. "Do you wish to ride with me?"

"No, thank you, I'll be fine to drive. I don't think we should be seen arriving together. Credibility and all that. Not to mention everyone already assumes we're having an affair."

Abigail bristles.

"At least let me walk you to your car."

"Of course."

Footsteps retreat, but Abigail waits until she is certain they are out of the room before peeking around the edge of the counter. The coast is clear, and she hears the front door click closed.

Cautiously, Abigail makes her way to a window looking out on the driveway. Hannibal is holding Alana's car door open for her, and the woman gives him a tight hug before climbing in.

Hannibal glances at the house, his eyes zeroing in on where Abigail looks out, as if he can sense her. She jumps back from the window, staying out of sight until she hears another car door close.

When she looks out again she sees Hannibal in his car, and Alana just beginning to back out. She must be expecting Hannibal to follow her to court. It's not like he can excuse himself by saying, "sorry, I have to tend to my ward."

_Ward? Not prisoner?_  She silently questions, but immediately ignores the thought.

Just like that he's gone. Backed out of the driveway and pulled off after Alana. Abigail isn't locked in her room.

_What do I do?_ She thinks, this new freedom paralyzing her.  _I could leave. Unlike my last 'opportunity' he poses no immediate threat. I could walk right out the front door._

_Again… where would I go? I don't have my new identity yet, and my old one is dead/wanted by the FBI._

Sighing, Abigail settles on exploring the house. She walks through the rooms, though perhaps ghosts is more fitting, as she doesn't touch or disturb anything, instead only looking.

The rooms are all impeccable, and seemingly homey, but Abigail can see the truth. Everything in this house is precisely designed to be both sophisticated and give the illusion of a home. It's like show house.

She sees the careful placement of not only knick-knacks, but also throw blankets and pillows. The cashmere blanket on the armchair looks as if it has been casually thrown there after an evening curled up with a book, but the precise angles of the corners give away the careful thought that went into this piece.

_Yes. Piece. This house is like a gallery, filled with the artistic display of what Hannibal believes a real home looks like._

There are only two areas on the main floor that show true signs of life.

The kitchen, naturally, which while always clean and pristine just has this  _lived in_  feel. Perhaps it's the discoloration in the cutting boards drying on the counter, or maybe just the way Hannibal's cologne lingers in the air hours after he's gone.

The other area is his harpsichord. There is sheet music all around it… famous pieces, hand written compositions, blank pages waiting to be filled. There is the slightest indent on the bench where he must sit, composing.

Abigail can't help but smile. She runs her fingers across the unfinished pieces he's written, wondering what images the music evokes in him. What motivates him to pour himself into his music?

_Art? Nature? Alana?_

_Smart, sophisticated, talented Alana…_

_Alana that everyone thinks Hannibal is having an affair with, because it makes sense. They make sense._

Abigail's chest hurts. She feels constricted like she can't breath. She needs air.

_And I can have it,_  she thinks, heading for the back door.

Her hand is already on the knob when she freezes.

_He can't stop you. It's not like you are running away, just breathing some fresh air… feeling the sun on your skin. No one will see you in the backyard._

Abigail's hand falls to her side and she backs away from the door, slowly at first, but then turning and racing upstairs.

It's not until she is in her room, door closed, that she can breath freely again.

* * *

**Author's Note:** We haven't had that much insight into Hannibal's mind in this fic (mainly because I am terrified of writing him too ooc), but I thought it was time to attempt it.  Then we have our poor Abigail, so determined to stay in control, but oblivious to the danger she's sliding into.

Please let me know what you think!  P.S.  Things are about to get intense!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

The day seems to drag on for Abigail, her unlocked door leaving her feeling watched no matter what she's doing. As it starts to get dark, she finds herself running through the same conversation that's plagued her all day.

_He must be starting to trust me_ , she thinks,  _otherwise he could have found some reason to come back to lock me up._

She wonders what this new trust means for her.

_Does he believe I'm under his control?_

Abigail momentarily rebels against the thought, reminding herself that only she is in control of herself, but concedes she does want him to  _feel_  in control. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing if Hannibal thought she was now fully under his spell.

She can't quite shake her reaction this morning, knowing it's probably unhealthy she was so comforted by returning to her room… her prison.

_He doesn't_ really  _control me_ , she swears to herself.

Gritting her teeth, Abigail marches out of her room, determined not to be cowed. She makes it about halfway down the stairs before she pauses, second-guessing herself.

_By staying in the house, and not running, he knows he can trust me. If I hide in my room he will think he's broken me completely. Hanging out downstairs and waiting for his return shows that I am loyal, but not intimidated._

_You are intimidated_ , and annoying voice reminds her.

_Shut up. He doesn't need to know that._

Abigail seats herself in the study and pretends to read a book, only her eyes glancing up at the clock every few minutes gives her away.

_Court couldn't possibly have taken this long. It should have ended hours ago! What could be keeping him? Or who?_

Her thoughts drift to Alana, and Abigail grits her teeth and snaps her book closed. She tries to think of anything aside from the reasons why anger flares within her at the thought of Dr. Bloom.

Stomach grumbling, Abigail decides to prepare herself dinner.

It's been a while since she's cooked, not that she was ever spectacular in the first place, but she took home economics and still remembers dishes they made.

Hannibal's pantry is always well stocked, and Abigail has no problem finding the things she needs to make spaghetti.

She boils her water and adds in the noodles, cursing under her breath when she realizes just how much pasta she put in.

While her noodles are cooking Abigail prepares her sauce, tasting it as she goes and finds herself surprised at how good it is.

_Probably because all of Hannibal's ingredients are top of the line, and organic, rather than the extra crap left over from the school kitchens we used in class._

Feeling pleased with herself, she puts her homemade garlic bread in the oven, and begins whipping up a salad.

Abigail hums as she works, feeling lighter than she has in days. Cooking is oddly soothing.

"Something smells delicious."

She freezes.

"Thanks," she says, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder.

Hannibal is in the kitchen doorway, his coat hung over his arm.

"It won't be much longer."

"Let me hang my coat and then I'll set the table," he tells her.

Abigail turns her attention back to her salad and tries to remain calm. Something about Hannibal trying her cooking is utterly nerve-wracking.

_What if it's so bad, he decides I'm a lost cause?_

After a moment he's back in the kitchen, gathering plates and silverware.

"How was court today?" Abigail asks. "How was Will?"

"Will seems to be doing much better now that his condition has been treated. Though today was probably a bit more exciting than he was expecting."

"How do you mean?"

"There was a severed ear delivered to him today. It led the FBI to a crime scene someone spent an awful lot of time on, making it resemble the crimes that Will is being charged with."

Abigail drains the pasta in the sink and turns to face Hannibal.

"Do they know who did it?" she asks.

"No, not yet. The general consensus though is it was someone trying to introduce reasonable doubt to exonerate Will."

"Who would go through all that trouble?"

"I wish I knew," he says, tone clipped.

It's then that she knows for sure it wasn't Hannibal, though that had been her first suspicion.

"Did it work?" she questions. "Did it help Will?"

"No. The judge was not swayed."

Taking the plates, Hannibal leaves to set the table. Abigail is left on her own to finish up, thoughts lingering on poor Will.

A little while later when they sit down to eat, Will couldn't be further from her mind. The only thing she can think of is what Hannibal will think of her cooking, as shallow as that may be.

_Will's facing a death sentence, and I'm anxious over how much garlic I used._

Abigail keeps her head downturned, as though she is focused on her plate, but she's watching Hannibal closely as he takes his first bite.

He chews slowly, deliberately, and she can hardly breathe. He sets his fork down and picks up a slice of the garlic bread, tearing a small bite off and once again concentrating as he chews.

"This is quite good, Abigail," he tells her finally, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "You constantly surprise me with your hidden talents."

"Thank you," she says, unable to hide her ear-to-ear grin.

"It makes me wonder what else you might be hiding we've yet to unearth."

The tone of his voice brings a flush to her cheeks and Abigail turns her attention to her food.

Dinner passes once again in relative silence, and Abigail wonders if maybe that just means he enjoyed the food so much he didn't feel up to making small talk.

It's not until they clear the table, and Abigail is running dishwater that Hannibal speaks again.

"I would take care of those," he tells her, nodding at the dirty dishes, "since you were the one to cook, after all, but I'm afraid I need to go out."

"Where are you going?"

"I have an important house call to make."

"Oh," she says sadly, "I didn't think you made appointments at such late hours."

"This is a special case. Someone important. He's a court official, and he could really use my attention."

Abigail studies Hannibal's face, clear and emotionless, except for a quick flash in his eyes. It's very brief, but it sends shivers down her spine, and makes her pity whoever tonight's  _patient_ may be.

"I'll be late, you don't have to wait up," he insists, crossing the kitchen to be by her side. "We can finish our conversation tomorrow."

"What conversation?"

"The one Alana interrupted this morning."

She blanks for a moment, but when she remembers she immediately looks away.

" _Sorry for kissing me or sorry for stopping?"_ Hannibal's questions rings in her head.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he assures her, and then bends down to place a kiss on her forehead.

"Bye," she replies weakly.

* * *

**Author's Note:**  Hi, guys. Sorry about the long wait! I've been kind of all over the place recently and not very reliable! I have this and another multi-chaptered fic that I am working on, but I'm also in the process of writing the second novel of my original series (which is supposed to be ready to publish in the spring... yikes). I just want to thank all of you who are hanging in there with me for this fic. I'm going to aim for once a week updates from this point on. Also, this may have seemed like a slow chapter, but we're about to rocket off and things are going to get intense!

As always reviews are greatly appreciated :)


	15. Chapter Fifteen

_Her father is standing before her, arms outstretched, beckoning her forward._

_Abigail cannot resist and finds herself hurrying towards him. He looks so loving, and happy… the way he used to be. Then, just as she is about to throw herself into his arms, he changes. He's no longer the caring father of her youth, but the menace that stalks her in the dark._

_No love remains in his eyes as his hand darts out to grab her wrist, pulling her forward before she can flee. He twists her, pinning her back to his chest. That's when she sees it. The silver glint of the blade in his other hand as it rises to her throat._

_She can feel the cold steel against her windpipe, and panic overwhelms her. The terror building inside her bubbles over and she screams out for help._

" _Abigail!"_

_Now he's shaking her._

"Abigail, wake up!"

Her eyes pop open and she gasps loudly, sucking in air as if to scream again. She sees Hannibal perched on the edge of her bed, concern clouding his face as he grasps her upper arms.

"Only a nightmare," he murmurs, and she throws herself into his arms, hating the way she finds them so safe and calming, but unable to deny herself the base need of comfort from someone she cares for.

"I'll never escape him," she pants. "He'll always be a part of me."

"Even if that were true, you would have nothing to fear. You control your actions, not the ghost of your father."

Abigail pulls back slowly, looking up into Hannibal's eyes, trying to gauge if he truly believes that. She finds no dishonesty looking back at her, but concedes she probably wouldn't recognize it if she did.

Taking a deep breath, she wrinkles her nose. Something smells strange; very chemical, like bleach or disinfectant.

"Will you stay?" she asks.

"I will, but I must shower first. I just got home and heard you on the way to my room."

Hannibal stands up, and Abigail grabs his hand before he can turn away.

"I— don't want to be alone," she says, quietly.

She hates how desperate her voice sounds, but the nightmare is still too fresh, and the shadows in her room too deep.

After a moment of consideration Hannibal bends down to scoop Abigail up into his arms. Despite knowing she would have no problem walking, Abigail allows this, wrapping her arms around his neck, and letting her head fall to rest on his shoulder.

Hannibal carries her from her room and down the hall into his bedroom.

Pulling the comforter back, he places her gently in his bed, and turns away to start undressing.

Abigail can't help but feel that some line has been crossed between them, and she looks around his room in awe. It's decorated as pristinely as the rest of the house, but it's shades of blue feel particularly welcoming.

With his back to her, Abigail can't resist watching as he disrobes, her cheeks flushing when he catches her gaze in his closet mirror.

Once he's down to his underwear, Hannibal turns back to her.

"My bathroom is just there," he tells her, pointing. "Will you be alright out here for five minutes, or would you like to sit in there while I bathe?"

Her cheeks flush even darker.

"I'll be okay, here."

Hannibal smirks and nods once before disappearing into the master bath.

She can hear the shower start and imagines him slipping out of his underwear and into the warm water. She bites her lip picturing the way the water would sluice over his well-defined chest, and he would lather himself up.

Blinking rapidly, Abigail tries to push the image from her mind. It was bad enough he caught her touching herself in  _her_ room. She would die of embarrassment if he caught her in  _his room_ , in  _his bed._

_As tempting a thought as that is._

The water stops and she shakes her head to clear it.

Moments later, Hannibal walks out of the bathroom toweling his hair dry and wearing nothing but a pair of red pajama pants.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Better. The more I wake up, the further away he seems. The less real."

"You can't always stay awake."

"It's lucky I have you then," she says without thinking.

Hannibal hangs his towel over the bathroom knob and then climbs into his bed beside her.

"Sometimes I don't know whose luck is responsible for that," he tells her quietly, as he turns off the bedside lamp. "Yours, or mine?"

Hannibal wraps his arms around her and Abigail curls to him without protest, inhaling the spicy, familiar, scent of his soap and allowing her hand to twine into his chest hair.

As she's drifting of she considers how drastically things have just shifted between them. This being the first time she consciously, openly, curls to him for comfort rather than reaching for the nearest body in the dark.

The next morning they sleep in much later than usual. Abigail didn't catch what time Hannibal returned the previous night, but she'd wager it was well past three in the morning.

They sleep until just after nine, when Hannibal's phone ringing wakes them. Abigail groans, when he shifts to answer it and Hannibal keeps one arm firmly wrapped around her.

"Hello? Yes, I see," He says, managing to sound well composed with no trace of sleep in his voice. "That is tragic. Thank you for calling me."

"Is ev—everything alright?" Abigail asks, stifling a yawn.

"That was Jack. It appears someone murdered the judge overseeing Will's trial last night. There has been a mistrial."

Abigail stiffens.

"They'll have to start all over. This could be good for Will," Hannibal tells her.

"Not so good for the judge," she says smartly.

"He was a foolish man."

"Anyone thinking Will capable of such atrocities is foolish."

Hannibal shifts to his side so he can see Abigail clearly.

"Since we are now awake, and I have no appointments until this afternoon, why don't we finish our conversation from yesterday morning?"

Abigail sits up, pulling away from Hannibal.

"I would love to," she says, giving him a tight-lipped smile, "but I really need to go take a shower."

She pushes the blankets back and clambers out of bed, hurrying towards the door.

"Abigail."

His voice is soft, but the command is evident and she pauses in her tracks, turning slowly back towards him.

Hannibal climbs out of bed, approaching her slowly, a predatory gleam in his eye.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you were trying to avoid talking to me."

"No… I just really need to shower."

"I think that can wait," he insists, taking her hand. "Now tell me, what were you sorry for? Kissing me, or stopping?"

The smirk he wears is maddening, so confident he is in what her answer will be.

"I'm sorry for kissing you," she says as evenly as she can, taking satisfaction in the way his smile disappears.

"That is not the impression I got. In fact I'm quite positive you were about to say something different yesterday, before we were interrupted."

Hannibal moves in closer, snaking his arm around her waist. Abigail swallows loudly, her throat feeling thick as she looks up at him.

She parts her lips to speak, but no words come and Hannibal takes that as all the signal he needs, closing the distance and kissing her.

"Tell me the truth," he mumbles against her mouth. "Tell me why you pull away."

Coherent thought fights hard to break through and Abigail shoves hard against his chest, pushing him back.

"Because you're a liar!" she shouts, surprising both of them.

He says nothing, switching back to clinical mode in an instant, studying her like a patient. It's too much, and Abigail can't stop the flood of anger that rushes from her.

"You don't want me," she says, finally voicing the thought that's been gnawing away at her. "This isn't about wanting  _me._  You just want to  _control_  me. Making me want you is just another aspect for you to reshape me into… into whatever it is you're trying to create."

"Abigail—"

"No, don't. I won't let you spin your pretty lies and try to trick me," she shakes her head, tears starting to stream down her cheeks. "You don't want someone like me."

"Someone like you?"

"Someone broken, and— and tarnished. Someone you can't fix. You may try, Hannibal, but you never will. You can give me fancy clothes, and jewels, and tell me how to wear my hair, you can do everything to try to sand me down, but it won't work. My edges are too jagged and nothing will fix that."

"Abigail, would you—"

"No. I won't. Why don't you run off to Alana? You don't have to condition her. She'll fill whatever mold you tell her to."

Before he can protest Abigail turns and runs. She hides in her room, slamming the door closed behind her.

Her legs give way beneath her and she sinks to the floor, sobs wracking her body as one haunting thought plagues her.

_If I'm not good enough for a cannibalistic serial killer, who am I good enough for?_

* * *

**Author's Note:** As always reviews are appreciated! And hang in there... you didn't think it would be a smooth ride for these two totally damaged people did you? 


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Hannibal is frozen, shocked by Abigail's sudden outburst. He doesn't know where it came from. Just hours ago she was tucked against his side, murmuring his name in her sleep, and now…

He doesn't know whether he should go after her or not. If he does will she believe his affections true, or just think he's lying to win her over?

_If I don't go after her will she think she's right?_

Massaging his temples, he debates with himself, wondering if perhaps this is just some sort of tantrum young people are so prone to.

_We will definitely work on keeping emotions in check next,_  he thinks.

After dressing, Hannibal pauses outside of Abigail's door and knocks.

Though she doesn't answer, he knows she is inside, listening.

"Abigail," he begins, "I don't know where this foolish notion came from, but I do care for you, and you are not broken, or tarnished. You are someone who has suffered trial by fire, and though you were singed, I know you can be a phoenix and rise from the ashes, greater than before."

She doesn't say anything.

"I admire you greatly, you know," he says, continuing his one sided conversation. "You are a  _survivor_. Many would not make it through the things you have endured, but you  _have_  and you have thrived."

Nothing.

"Alana would not have survived. You may envy her in some form, but never doubt you are superior."

After a moment the doorknob jiggles, and Abigail cracks the door open.

"Why do you care about me?" she asks.

"Because when I look at you I see a kindred spirit. I see someone who has struggled as I did. You know more about me, have seen more of me, than anyone else, Abigail, and unless I have very much misread the signs, you have grown to care about me. In spite of all you know. How could I ever let something as precious as that slip away from me?"

She shakes her head.

"Don't just—"

"I'm not just saying it," he assures her.

Abigail opens the door all the way, but when he reaches for her she steps back and holds up her hand to stop him.

"If I— If I let this happen," she tells him, voice wavering, "and you try to manipulate me, or—or use my feelings against me or for yourself in any way, I swear to God, Hannibal, I will destroy this perfect little life you've built for yourself even if it means condemning myself in the process."

Hannibal arches his eyebrow at her, the only sign of his shock at this sudden malice from Abigail.

"I mean it," she says. "Never again will I be someone's puppet. I am under my own control from this point on."

There is a fire in her eyes he's never seen before, and truth be told he feels himself igniting. She's never looked so deadly… or beautiful.

"Do we have an agreement?" she asks.

"As long as you understand that if you ever do anything to compromise me I will see to it you indeed meet your end as everyone believes has already happened, and no part of you will be honored."

"Agreed," Abigail says.

"Agreed," he echoes.

In less than the space of a heartbeat the two are on one another.

Abigail throws caution and common sense to the wind, allowing her carnal needs to finally take over. Hannibal pulls her up to deepen their kiss and she wraps her legs around his waist, allowing him to fully support her.

Hannibal walks to the edge of her bed, carrying her with him and sits down, seating Abigail in his lap. His hand slips from her hair down her neck and to her shoulder, edging the strap of her nightgown down.

It's then she realizes she's only her nightclothes while Hannibal is dressed in a three-piece suit.

While many of her fantasies, and the scenarios she's played in her head, involve mentor Hannibal guiding and teaching her through their exploits, she won't let that be how they start out.

Fire still burning through her, Abigail pushes Hannibal's hand away and climbs off his lap.

He opens his mouth questioningly, probably wondering if she's pulling away yet again, but she shushes him.

Abigail pushes Hannibal's suit jacket off and then begins unbuttoning his vest. When he doesn't protest she loosens his tie, removes it, and tosses it over her shoulder.

After he's completely shirtless, Abigail grabs his belt buckle and pulls him to his feet. She stands on tippy toes to plant a rough kiss on his lips, and then proceeds to undress him until he is standing naked before her.

She bites her lip as she looks down at his protruding member, and feels herself grow wet in anticipation. Abigail places one hand on his chest and pushes him back onto the bed. Only then does she shimmy out of her own underwear and pull her nightgown off.

_You are not the only one who can take charge_ , she thinks as he devours her with his gaze.

She kneels on the edge of the bed and Hannibal reaches for her hand, pulling her down so she is lying across his chest.

"You're perfect," he murmurs, nibbling at her ear.

Abigail groans and throws a leg over his thigh, unconsciously rubbing herself against him.

Hannibal's hand slips between them and he dips a finger into her folds.

Gasping, she arches against his hand.

He chuckles and kisses down her neck, tracing his tongue across her scar.

_I'm… in… control…_

Abigail leans back and sits up on her knees. She places one leg on either side of Hannibal's hips, and while maintaining eye contact positions herself right above him, then lowers herself onto his shaft.

Her breath catches as he glides into her but she keeps her eyes trained on his, until finally Hannibal moans and his eyelids flutter shut.

That victory combined with finally getting what she's been fantasizing about almost sends Abigail over the edge.

Hannibal's hands clamp onto her hips and urge to move. Slowly, sly smile on her face, she begins to roll her hips forward and backwards.

She's never felt more powerful than she does in this moment, looking down at Hannibal Lecter coming undone beneath her.

It's intoxicating.

_It's… It's…_

"Ah," she pants, forgetting the power play as she gets closer and closer to completion.

One of his hands strays from her hip and seeks out that bundle of nerves sure to finish her. His fingers move expertly as her movements become less rhythmic and more frantic.

He can feel her clench around him as she cries out, and Hannibal gives two—three powerful thrusts upwards calling out his own completion as he spurts inside her.

"Abigail," he pants.

Her head lolls to the side, eyes closed and chest heaving. Hannibal uses the little strength he has left to reach up and pull her down next to him.

They both lay there, covered in sweat and out of breath, lounging in the morning sun.

She must drift off because when Hannibal begins nuzzling her neck the sun seems lower in the sky.

"I have to go to work soon," he says quietly.

She groans, reaching out to hold onto him.

"I do however now need a shower before I go. Care to join me?" he asks.

Unable to fight her mischievous smile, Abigail nods and lets him pull her from bed.

They end up in his shower, which seems more than built for two. She luxuriates in the warm water, enjoying the way Hannibal's soapy hands glide over her body. In turn, she returns the favor, washing him as well.

While their actions are so sensual and intimate, neither of them initiate anything more, instead enjoying the simple pleasure of being skin to skin.

When they finish Hannibal wraps Abigail in a fluffy bathrobe and carries her to his bed. She tries to pull him down with her, and while he does grant her a searing kiss, he ultimately pulls away.

"I'm sorry, I really do have to get to work. I'm seeing Bella Crawford today."

Abigail sighs longingly, but nods her head in understanding.

"I'll be waiting," she tells him.

"You better be."

After he has gone Abigail can't seem to wipe the smile off of her face.

_Never doubt you are superior_ , she replays in her mind.  _Take that Dr. Bloom._

Doubt flickers through her mind, wondering if he may still be playing her, but she pushes it away.

_If this were still a game he would have pulled the plug after I revealed I am not as under his control as he thought._

Humming to herself, and feeling remarkably more upbeat than she's used to, Abigail prepares herself a light lunch and decides to spend the day in the basement training.

She has absolutely no idea that as she is practicing her right hook, Hannibal is flipping a coin… or that when she climbs on the treadmill, he is bringing Bella Crawford back to life.

It's not until hours later when she is stretching her muscles and catches the glimpse of a flashlight shining down the basement stairs that she suspects anything is wrong.

Abigail's heart almost stops and she jumps to her feet, hurrying to turn off the light in the training area.

Moving as quietly as possible she backs up to the farthest wall.

Light scans the basement and Abigail's adrenaline kicks into overdrive, and she wonders if the intruder can hear her heart pounding.

_It's a woman._

The sound of high heels click closer and closer.

_Could it be Alana? Or maybe Freddie?_

The flashlight comes to rest on Abigail, and then drops. The lights come on one by one as the intruder flips the switch.

Abigail vaguely recognizes the Asian woman in front of her as one of the lab techs from the FBI headquarters.

"Oh my god," the woman says.

Abigail doesn't know what to do, or say, but just then she catches sight of Hannibal standing back beyond the woman.

Following her gaze, the intruder turns around and sees Hannibal. Before she can react he kills the lights leaving her blind and firing into the darkness.

The room is illuminated in flashes and Abigail sees Hannibal closing in on this woman. Fear keeps her immobilized, pinned to the wall as she hears the gun clatter to the floor and the intruder gasping for air.

She's not sure how long passes before there are no more sounds of a struggle and Hannibal is at her side, asking if she's okay.

"I'm fine, I'm okay, I'm fine," she says, voice shaking at the lie she forces herself to tell.

"Good, because now you are going to help me."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I have to admit, when I started this chapter I was headed in a completely different direction, but the characters had their own idea and things just spiraled out of control. I really hope you like it! Please review!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Abigail shakes her head and backs away.

"No," she whispers, "I—I can't."

"Yes, you can," Hannibal insists, turning away from her. "I'll tell you what to do."

He crosses over to where the dead woman lays spread on the floor, and crouches down beside her.

"Beverly," he sighs, "Such a waste."

Hannibal scoops her up into his arms and crosses the basement to the door of he walk-in deep freezer.

"Abigail, would you open this?"

Legs moving on their own accord carry her across the basement to the freezer, and numb hands reach out to pull open the door.

Nodding his thanks, Hannibal steps past her into the freezer and gently places Beverly on a long metal table. He leans over her to smooth her hair and adjust her clothing before exiting the room.

Despite closing the door, Abigail still feels like there is cold air swirling around her, pressing against her, and suffocating her.

"She was here on her own, at a time she knew I wouldn't be home, and she didn't have a search warrant," Hannibal muses. "I think it is safe to say she was working alone… or at the insistence of someone we know. Namely someone we know who is currently in jail for your murder, among other things."

She watches in a daze as he begins walking around the room, collecting tools, and items he is going to need later. His movements are fast and efficient and she suspects whatever he is planning for Beverly is something he's considered for a while.

"So," he begins, stopping in front of Abigail, "what we'll do—"

"You," she says, voice coming out hoarse.

"Beg pardon?"

"You. What  _you'll_ do. I—I can't. I want no part of this," Abigail insists, holding up her hands.

"You  _are_  part of this," Hannibal says, voice gaining that dangerous edge. "You are part of everything now. Why do you think she was here? Will sent her out of vengeance for  _you_."

"Because you made everyone think I'm dead!"

"Only so I could protect you. Jack was closing in on you, Abigail. He knew you helped your father. He would have sent you to prison."

"My father forced me," she insists, heart pounding.

"That wouldn't have mattered to Jack."

"Now… you're trying to force me."

Abigail glares at Hannibal, unable to keep the disgust from her face.

"Abigail—"

"No. My father told me it was those girls or me, and I did what I had to do to stay alive. This is different… unless it isn't. Are you telling me I  _have_  to do this?"

"I'm  _asking_  you," Hannibal says.

She nods.

"And I'm saying no."

Without another word Abigail takes off, bolting up the basement stairs and not stopping until she's reached her room.

Hannibal doesn't follow her, for which she's grateful, but the image of dead Beverly is burned into Abigail's mind. She tries to push it away and think of anything else, but that only makes matters worse and Beverly is replaced by her father's victims.

_My victims._

She shakes her head as if she can physically dispel the images, and marches into the bathroom. Abigail is sticky from the sweat of her workout, and the salt from the tears she didn't realize she was shedding.

Cranking the shower on the highest heat it will go, she strips out of her tracksuit and climbs in.

The water stings as it hits her, but she relishes the heat, still plagued by images of Beverly in the freezer.

She scrubs and scrubs until her skin is pink and almost raw, only getting out once the water begins to run cold.

Downstairs in the basement, Hannibal is preparing his saw, and stacking sheets of glass for his display.

He thinks about how much quicker this process would be if Abigail had agreed to help him, but he doesn't hold it against her.

Yes, he is disappointed in her refusal, but he decides that he is to blame. Beverly is not the right place for them to begin. He decides he'll just have to pick someone else. Someone Abigail won't feel remorse for.

_Small steps,_  he thinks, sharpening his blade.

After slipping into her pajamas and brushing her hair, Abigail doesn't know what to do. The weight of the day already seems to be hitting her, but she's afraid to go to sleep, knowing the nightmares won't be far behind.

She wonders if Hannibal is too mad at her to save her from her dreams, but then realizes even if he weren't he'll likely be busy most of the night.

Sighing, she pulls one of the books she borrowed from Hannibal off of her dresser and tries to lose herself in it.

The later it grows the harder it is for her to focus, and her eyes keep drifting shut.

_Abigail_ , her father calls.

She jolts awake and shakes her head.

Downstairs she hears the door slam closed, and about thirty seconds later a car engine roars to life.

She slams the book shut and puts it back on the dresser. Knowing she is alone in the house while so many bad memories are haunting her is almost too much to bear.

Abigail remembers those little blue pills Hannibal tried to give her the first night she was here, the sleeping pills. When she finally did take them she didn't have any dreams or nightmares.

_I bet they are in his bathroom._

The hall is dark and quiet outside her room, and there is no light switch within reach. Abigail tiptoes towards Hannibal's room, but the feeling of something sinister watching her sends her racing.

She throws herself in Hannibal's room and slams the door behind her.

Her chest is heaving as she turns on his bedroom light, and suddenly she feels very foolish.

_Nightmares can't hurt me,_  she thinks, shaking her head.  _Not while I'm awake._

Something about being in Hannibal's bedroom makes her sleeping pill plan seem ridiculous.

She wonders if it is the way his presence hangs in the air, as if he just stepped into the next room.

Yawning loudly, she decides against the pills. Turning to leave, her hand pauses on the doorknob.

She bites her lip and makes a different decision; letting go of the knob she crosses the room to climb into Hannibal's bed.

The comforter and sheets smell like him and Abigail buries her face in his pillow. It takes no time at all for her to fall into a peaceful sleep.

Wearing a self-satisfied grin, Hannibal places the finishing touches on the scene at the observatory.

He wonders if Beverly would see the display as any consolation for her death. It is such a fitting finale to her existence, showcasing her body in a way that reflects her mind and soul.

He's quite pleased with himself.

On the drive home he muses over his current dilemma with Abigail. Thinking about it now he realizes his mistake in asking for her help. Hannibal should have seen that from the beginning. Of course wanting her to help him would be a trigger for her.

_What I need is for her to need my help._

Hannibal theorizes that if he were to recreate a situation similar to that of her murder of Nicholas Boyle, where Abigail would need  _his_ help, it may trigger that reminiscence of when they first started to work together. Thereby bringing them closer.

By the time he gets home he has a plan settled in his mind, and is feeling quite optimistic. He just hopes Abigail isn't too mad at him.

Hannibal hesitates outside her bedroom, debating whether he should go to her, but decides against it, choosing to let her come to him.

It's a very short wait, as it turns out.

He's surprised to enter his room and find her asleep, curled up to his pillow.

Smirking, he crosses the room to his bathroom, hoping the shower won't wake her. Hannibal would prefer to climb straight into bed, but he needs to be sure there is no evidence on him no matter how inviting his bed now is.

His shower is quick but thorough; over the years he has perfected destroying any possible links between himself and the scenes of his crimes.

Abigail doesn't hear the shower, but she does feel the bed dip beside her, and the sudden aroma of Hannibal's soap let's her know it is no nightmare.

She mumbles sleepily as she feels his arms wrap around her.

"—you mad at me?" she asks, voice groggy.

"No, I'm not mad," he reassures her, burying his nose in her hair. "Are you mad at me?"

"I was, but—" a big yawn cuts off her words.

"Shh, we can talk in the morning."

"Mmm-kay. Goodnight, Hannibal."

"Goodnight, Abigail."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry if this chapter seemed a bit dull, but there was some things that needed to get out there. I plan to have another chapter up by at least Monday that will include a bit more action. Please let me know what you think!


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Stubbly kisses on her neck wake her in the morning, and Abigail squirms away from the ticklish sensation. She feels Hannibal's low rumble of laughter echo though her as he pulls her back tighter against his chest.

Blinking sleep from her eyes, she tries to twist her head to look at him, but his hold on her doesn't loosen and she can only see the way his arm wraps around her.

Giving up she lets her head fall back down and wiggles back further into him.

Hannibal nuzzles his cheek against her hair, pushing it out of the way and allowing him access to her ear. He nips at her earlobe and Abigail's toes curl as she leans up to meet him.

_We should talk about last night,_  her slowly waking mind reminds her.

The hand he has splayed across her stomach, holding her close, begins to roam, coming to rest on her hip. The warmth of his fingers burns through the thin fabric of her nightgown and she sighs, pressing her bottom against him.

The hardness she finds pressing back against her drives all thought of conversation from her mind.

"Good morning," she mumbles, sleepily.

"It's about to get better," he whispers, voice husky.

In one fluid movement, faster than she can process, Hannibal pulls away from her and uses his hand on her hip to push her flat on the bed. His leg swings overtop of her and then he is hovering over her, straddling her waist.

The hunger in his eyes fills her with nervous anticipation and she fights to keep her breathing even.

His face unreadable, Hannibal tugs at the edge of her nightgown, slowly pushing the material up. He leaves it bunched just below her breasts and slides his hands down across her abdomen, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake.

When his hands reach her underwear, he traces the edge of her panty line with his index finger, before hooking both thumbs under the elastic band.

Hannibal climbs off of Abigail to allow himself to slide her underwear off, and then spreads her legs so he can kneel between them.

She shivers, both from the cool air of the bedroom on her skin, and from the way his gaze devours her.

Abigail thinks of yesterday, and their first coupling, how utterly in control and in charge she was. Today is different.

She has no control here.

Yes, if she said stop he would stop, but she won't. She wants him too much. She craves his touch more than anything else at this moment, and Abigail knows she will give in to whatever he wants of her.

His hands rest on her thighs and he bows his head to kiss her stomach. His fingers inch closer and closer upwards, but he stops, tauntingly.

"So beautiful," he murmurs between kisses, his lips moving lower and lower. "A work of art, with skin carved from the finest marble."

He slides down further on the bed, coming to rest with his face between her thighs. Abigail can feel his breath on her center, and she can no longer control her breathing. It's rushed, and labored, nerves and want all bubbling through her chest, constricting her lungs.

Hannibal's finger traces the edge of her folds, slowly, oh so slowly, until she thinks she'll draw blood from biting into her lip.

Parting her, Hannibal allows himself a moment of adoration before darting his tongue out to taste her.

Hands fisted in sheets, Abigail can't suppress a moan.

As he is in all things, Hannibal is an expert at this, too, Abigail finds. In minutes he has her bucking, hips rising to meet his lips. Stars press at the edge of her vision, so very…  _close._

Sensing her completion, Hannibal focuses his attention on the little bundle of nerves at her very core, and it's more than she can handle.

Abigail comes undone, crying out and struggling for air.

He only allows her a moment, and then Hannibal is on top of her, stripping her nightgown off.

She stares up at him with hooded eyes, and a hazy smirk. Abigail reaches out to caress his cheek, but Hannibal's hand darts out to grab her wrist. He captures the other one as well and pins her hands above her head.

The gleam in his eye is fierce, scary almost, but it only reignites her flame.

As he leans down to kiss her, Abigail wrinkles her nose and turns her face away, unable to banish the thought of where his mouth just was.

_If I liked that, I wouldn't be in bed with you,_ she thinks.

Undeterred, Hannibal kisses her neck and uses his free hand to position himself at her entrance. He glides right in and they sigh in union.

He keeps her hands pinned above her head, and despite her aching shoulders, Abigail revels in the way she feels beneath him. There is nothing else but the two of them in this moment, and the way they fit together perfectly, as if created with the other in mind.

His thrusts are rhythmic; hard yet perfectly angled to make her cry out in ecstasy.

"Mine," he pants, driving into her. "You're mine, Abigail."

She whimpers below him, the pressure in the pit of her stomach building once more.

"Say it," Hannibal urges. "Say you're mine."

Abigail bites her lip, even now on the verge of pleasurable incoherency that voice of reason in the back of her head won't let go.

"Mine," she whispers, "mine."

Hannibal smiles, mistakenly believing she is claiming him as her own, rather than realizing she is in fact claiming herself.

_I belong to no one._

A slight shift of his angle and Abigail is soaring once more. Feeling her fall over the edge beneath her, Hannibal finishes with guttural cry, collapsing on top of her.

He finally releases her wrists, and Abigail wraps her arms around him limply.

 

Much later, after a morning of training in the basement, and a lunch they prepare together, Hannibal receives the phone call about Beverly Katz's murder.

When he hangs up he joins Abigail in his study, and apologizes.

"I'm sorry," he says, sitting next to her. "I should not have put you in that position last night. It was a very poor lack of judgment on my part."

"I—It's okay," she says, staring at her hands, fiddling her fingers in her lap. "I know you were thinking in the moment. It's just… I don't want any part of that, Hannibal."

Abigail forces herself to look up and meet his eyes.

"It's not who I am. Well, not who I want to be."

"How do you feel about that being who  _I_ am?" he asks, voice emotionless.

"Honestly, I don't know," she admits. "Right now, I don't care. You are protecting us;  _protecting me_. I can't hate you for that. However, I can't promise that will always be the case. I know you don't always… do what you do out of necessity. I know you like it."

Hannibal nods thoughtfully, and reaches for her hand.

"I do like it," he says softly. "Does that frighten you?"

She can't find her voice, so she instead shakes her head a very halfhearted 'no'.

Hannibal, very slowly, reaches up to wrap his hand around her neck.

"These fingers have done so much damage," he tells her, tightening his grasp slightly. "Do you fear my touch?"

"Not anymore," she forces out, throat feeling tight.

Satisfied, Hannibal releases her and leans in to kiss her.

_Yeah, this is healthy_ , a sarcastic voice in her head pipes up, but she ignores it.

"Come with me," Hannibal insists, standing and offering her his hand.

He leads her up into her room and then begins sifting through her drawers. He tosses her a navy blue dress with a high neckline. He grabs another dress as well, a red one, but this one he hangs onto.

"Change into this, and then style your hair down. Do your make-up in an every day casual look, and meet me in the basement."

Before Abigail can ask any questions, Hannibal slips out of the room and heads downstairs.

She's not entirely sure she wants to take part in anything in the basement that requires a dress code, but she does as she is told, more curious than anything.

The dress, she decides, is actually adorable, and something she might choose for herself. It has three-quarter sleeves, a belted waist, and a flared skirt.

Abigail lets her hair out of its high bun, a style she's grown accustomed to because she knows how Hannibal hates for her to hide her missing ear and scarred neck. She throws in some curls, touches up her make-up, and as an afterthought puts on a silver necklace Hannibal gave her.

When she descends into the basement, Abigail's not sure what she was expecting, but it is certainly not what she finds.

The training area looks like a photo studio.

One the far wall there is a gray backdrop mounted, with a light umbrella aimed at it, and directly in front of it is a tripod camera.

Hannibal is off to the side, fiddling with the lighting.

"What is this for?" she asks.

"To take your picture."

"Well, yeah, I figured as much," she replies, resisting rolling her eyes. "I mean, why?"

"I already told you I have someone building you a new identity. He needs a picture for your new I.D. and your passport."

Abigail smiles brightly. A part of her was beginning to wonder if the new identity had just been a line to gain her trust.

"Just stand over there, by the tape mark on the floor," he instructs.

She tries not to skip to her place.

Hannibal adjusts the camera, but doesn't take a picture. Instead he comes over to stand in front of her and adjust her hair.

"There," he says happily, once he is back behind the camera. "Your scar and ear are completely invisible, without being obviously so."

Abigail smiles softly, and Hannibal snaps a few photos.

"When we get to Europe," he says, stepping from behind the camera, "I know an excellent plastic surgeon. He could remove your scar, and give you a prosthetic ear. Not that you need it, of course, but it may make things a little easier in hiding."

"I— that would be wonderful, thank you."

Hannibal nods, but doesn't say anything. She knows he doesn't like the idea, he believes scars show strength, and while Abigail no longer hates her appearance, she does like the idea of anonymity.

"Here, put this one on now," he says, tossing her the red dress he took from her room. "It's less suspicious if you're dressed differently in you I.D. and passport photo. People rarely get them at the same time."

Abigail nods and sheds the blue dress before slipping into the red one. It's a similar cut and style, though the neckline is a little deeper.

Once more Hannibal comes to adjust her hair, this time clipping one side back with a silver comb.

"Perfect," he whispers, placing a kiss on her forehead.

He takes a few more pictures.

"Alright, I think we have what we need," he insists, preparing to take the camera down.

"Wait!" she says, and he pauses, arching a questioning eyebrow at her. "Can you…" she bites her lip, "can you set the timer, and take a picture with me?"

"Abigail…"

"I know it's dangerous to have photographic evidence of us together, but please?"

He looks ready to deny her, so she puts on her most simpering expression. With a sigh, Hannibal fiddles with the dials on the camera, and comes to stand beside her.

"It's going to take three consecutive pictures," he says, wrapping an arm around her waist.

Abigail beams brightly at the camera, thinking how striking they must look together. Hannibal is wearing his grey and red plaid suit, perfectly matched to the shade of her dress. Almost as if he planned it.

They are both looking at the camera when the first flash goes off, but Abigail can't help but stare up at him when it flashes again, and by the time the third picture is taken they are wrapped around one another in a passionate embrace.

"One for the record books," he remarks smartly, whispering against her lips.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I really hope that wasn't  _too_ fluffy... well fluffy for these two anyways. Would love to hear what you think!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

The next day, Hannibal cautiously slips out of bed without waking Abigail. He's ready to set his plan into motion, and drive her to ask for his help.

Hannibal knows what she is capable of; he just wants her to see it as well.

He leaves her breakfast waiting at the foot of his bed, and a note explaining he'll be back soon.

When she wakes, Abigail is a little disappointed to find him gone, but she can't hide her smile when she sees the silver tray at the end of the bed.

_He is always looking out for me,_  she muses with a small smile, picking up the note.

_My Abigail,_

_I was called away for an emergency session and could not bear to wake you. I will not be gone long._

_I have something special planned for us tonight. I would appreciate it if you could start on dinner for me; the recipe is in the kitchen. I apologize, I did not have time to prepare the marinade._

_Yours,_

_Hannibal_

Abigail snorts.

She doesn't believe for a second Hannibal couldn't have started whatever dinner prep he needed before he left. Not to mention he  _always_ has a selection of homemade marinades waiting, just in case, in the fridge.

She smirks, suspecting he's testing her, forcing her to expand her culinary knowledge.

When she sees the clothing he's set out for her, Abigail bites her lip, becoming extremely interested wondering what the  _something special_  is he has planned for the evening.

He's laid out a white blouse, black pleated skirt, and white knee high stockings.

_My, my, Doctor Lecter…_

Something feels different today, she realizes, picking over breakfast. Maybe it's just the fact that she's been getting some decent sleep curled up with Hannibal in his bed, but Abigail swears there is more to it.

Perhaps it is knowing that the plan to leave the country is moving forward. She had been wondering if that hadn't been a line to keep her idly sitting still and taking orders, and while the photoshoot could have been a way to trick her into believing, Abigail doesn't think that is the case.

_We're really leaving… together. Going somewhere no one knows us and we can go out places!_

While she is showering and dressing for the day, contemplating how bright the future is, Hannibal is at his office making a phone call he feels will only help them.

With a patient file spread open across his desk, Hannibal scans through it, pleased with what he sees.

_It's for the best,_ he reassures himself, dialing the phone.

"Mr. Grant? Hello. This is Dr. Lecter."

"Dr. Lecter?" the man on the other end of the phone asks. "It's nice to hear from you. I didn't think you would get back to me."

"It took me a while to decide on the best course of therapy for you, Mr. Grant, but I think I know just what you need now. The only way to truly help you."

Abigail is in the kitchen humming to herself when she hears the front door open.

She smiles excited to show Hannibal her progress on dinner.

He picked what had to be one of the most complicated recipes in his box, but she feels like she has risen to the occasion. Not only did she make the marinade herself, but she also spent a good hour learning how to make those little tomato rose things he is so fond of.

She continues chopping up the vegetables they are going to need, waiting impatiently for him to come find her.

"Hello?"

Her back stiffens and her hand freezes, locked around the knife mid-chop.

Flipping around, still holding the knife, Abigail gasps finding someone other than Hannibal looking at her.

The man looks like he is in his late forties, and has dark, graying, hair and a mustache. He's studying Abigail with beady eyes, and she doesn't like the glint that flashes as he hesitates on her short skirt.

"Oh, no, don't be frightened!" he insists, stepping into the kitchen. "I have a treatment with Dr. Lecter today. The front door was unlocked."

Her heart is racing and she wonders if this man recognizes her from all the news stories.

"Dr. Lecter doesn't take patients at home," she says, voice harsh.

_He needs to go,_  her mind races.

_He's seen me!_

"You—you need to go. Right now," she tells him. "You shouldn't be here. Dr. Lecter would be furious! If—if you go now, and never mention this, I won't tell him you were here."

_Please go… please…_

"I've only just got here," he tells her, smiling in a way that alarms her. "Why don't we get to know each other first? My name is Carson. What's yours, sweetie?"

She shakes her head, refusing to answer, and he walks further into the kitchen.

"How about I pick? You look like an Anna, or maybe a Lily. Maybe I'll just call you baby doll."

"Get out!" she forces, voice getting louder. "You need to go now!"

"This may be a bit unorthodox," he says, more to himself than to Abigail, "but I'm willing to give it a try. I think this is a treatment I can get behind."

When Carson steps around the kitchen island, Abigail holds up the small knife she had been using to chop vegetables.

"Stay away from me, I'm warning you!"

"The skirt and stockings are a nice touch, but I would have loved pigtails."

He takes another few steps towards her and she brandishes the knife at him. She doesn't want to hurt him, only scare him on his way.

He only laughs.

Abigail springs forward and slashes out, catching his hand and drawing blood, causing him to cry out in surprise.

"You bitch!"

He dives at her, and when she tries to swipe at him again, Carson catches her wrist and twists it until she drops her blade.

"Ah!"

When she is disarmed, he throws Abigail backwards and she hits the counter. She tries to run past him, knowing her speed is the best option at this point as he is well over two times her size, but he catches her and wraps his arms around her waist.

"No! No!" she screams as he picks her up.

Carson slams her down so she is bent over the center island, while he presses up behind her.

Abigail's cheek is on the cold marble and she can feel panic welling in her chest. Right in front her, directly in her line of sight, is Hannibal's block of knives.

_No, no, no._

She feels him fumbling behind her but can't get away. The more she struggles, the more determined he seems.

When she hears a belt buckle, Abigail doesn't even hesitate to think. Her hand shoots out to grab the biggest knife she can, pulling it from the block in one swift motion.

He doesn't even have time to comprehend what's happened before she twists her arm back and buries the stainless steel blade in his side.

He screams and pulls away as she withdraws the knife.

Carson clutches his side and stumbles backwards, clutching his bleeding side with both hands.

Abigail stands up straight and turns to face him, her eyes flashing as dangerously as Hannibal's so often do.

Her attacker opens his mouth to speak, but she doesn't give him the chance. In one quick slice she cuts his throat.

The blood sprays a lot more than she is expecting, and being so much shorter than Carson, Abigail is all but covered by the time his legs give out and he collapses.

She stares coldly down at him as he is huddled on the floor, gasping for breath. It's not until he stops sputtering that Abigail thinks about what she's done.

Her hands start shaking uncontrollably and the knife she's holding clatters to the ground.

"Oh, god," she whimpers, covering her mouth with her hands.

Her fingers are slick with blood and she stares at them in horror, then looks down to see she is all but drenched.

It's not just her, either. Carson's blood is pooling on the floor beneath him, the dark puddle growing and spreading. Abigail steps back away from it as the blood reaches out towards her stocking clad feet.

She knows she needs to do…  _something…_  she just isn't sure what.

_I need to clean this mess up._

Forcing herself into action she grabs trash bags and a fresh roll of paper towels from under the sink.

Hands still shaking, Abigail crouches down next to Carson's lifeless form. She begins attempting to mop up the blood on the floor with wads of paper towel.

It doesn't work very well.

_Probably because he won't stop leaking!_

Growling in frustration, she tosses the towels down and grabs two trash bags. She opens one and slides it up his legs, cinching the bag around his waist. The top half is a bit harder.

He's extremely heavy and it takes her a minute to get him propped sitting up, then, when she does, he almost collapses on her.

Finally, after working up a sweat, Abigail manages to get the second trash bag over Carson's head and torso. When that's done, she begins the hard work of dragging him across the kitchen and into the pantry.

While she would like to get him into the basement and to the giant freezer, there is no way for her to get him down the stairs short of throwing him, and she suspects that would lead to a bigger mess.

Once the pantry door is closed, and the body out of sight, she restarts trying to clean the floor. She soaks up as mush as the blood as possible with paper towel, and then fills a bucket with bleach water before scrubbing the floor.

_I hope this won't hurt the wood._

When Hannibal arrives home, slowly walking through the house, he would never suspect what happened here… so long as he didn't notice the bloody, quivering, girl sitting propped against his pantry door.

"Abigail?" he asks, striding over and crouching in front of her. "Abigail, are you alright? Tell me what happened."

Her eyes are unfocused at first and it takes her a moment to realize he's there.

"Hannibal?"

"What happened?"

"I was— and he came… he saw me and—and he tried to attack me," she stutters, almost incoherent.

"Then what happened? What happened to him?" he asks.

"I… took care of him. He's in the pantry. He was too heavy. I need your help," she insists, blue eyes begging him. "I cleaned the floors. Like you showed me with Nick."

Hannibal nods and stands up, holding his hand out for her. Her hand is still shaking when she reaches for him and allows him to pull her up.

He looks her over, almost in awe. He once wondered what she would look like covered head to toe in blood, and now Hannibal knows she is every bit as wondrous as he imagined.

"I'm here now," he tells her. "I'll help you."

"Thank you," she says, voice cracking.

"Let me take it from here, and you go shower. Use mine."

Almost in a trance she turns to leave, but before she can walk away Hannibal stops her.

"Leave your clothing here, I need to burn it."

Abigail nods and reaches for the buttons on her blouse, but her hands are still shaking so badly she can't get the first button undone. Hannibal rests his hands over hers, and offers to help. She lets her arms fall limply to her sides and allows him to undress her.

He's efficient undoing her blouse, and gentle sliding her skirt down to the floor. He kneels before here to carefully roll her stockings down, kissing each knee as he raises her foot to pull the knee high off.

When her bra and underwear join the rest of her clothing on the ground, Abigail climbs the stairs and heads to Hannibal's room.

She cranks the shower heat up and stands under the flowing stream, watching as the water swirls red around her toes.

By the time she manages to scrub her skin and hair clean with the special soaps in his shower, Hannibal is waiting for her on the edge of his bed.

Abigail walks out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wearing Hannibal's bathrobe. The water did a lot to help clear her mind.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"I will be. Eventually."

"You protected us today. I'm very proud of you."

"What was he doing here?" she questions. "He said he had a session with you."

"He was supposed to. He never showed. Perhaps he looked up the wrong address."

She opens her mouth to speak, but pauses, closing it again as she ponders what he just said.

"You're unlisted," she says quietly. "I know, because when I snuck out of the hospital I was going to come here, but the only address listed for Hannibal Lecter is your office address. How did he know where you lived?"

Her eyes narrow as she watches him, suspicion moving in.

" _The skirt and stockings are a nice touch, but I would have loved pigtails."_

"Maybe he found it by—" Hannibal begins, but Abigail interrupts.

"Oh my god, you sent him here," she accuses. "This was some sort of sick test!"

To her dismay, he doesn't deny it.

"It wasn't a test, Abigail. It was an awakening. There is a killer inside of you; you only need to let her out. We are the same."

She shakes her head in disgust.

"No, we are not. I'm a killer, fine, I'll learn to live with that, but we are not the same. I kill for survival. I kill when the only option is them or me. You… you like it. You revel in hurting other people and twisting them to play your  _fucked up_  little games." She walks over to him, sticking her finger in his chest. "You and I are not alike, and you and I are  _nothing_. You want to kill me? Fine. Do it and be done with. But stay the fuck away from me, Hannibal, because you are toxic, and I don't want you near me."

She backs up.

"Abigail—"

"Toxic," she repeats, shaking her head.

Shooting him one more disgusted glare, Abigail marches out of Hannibal's room and goes to her own.

_That did not go how I imagined,_  Hannibal thinks, wondering where he went wrong.

With a weary sigh, he stands up, deciding to worry about Abigail later. As of now he still has a body to get rid of.

_Perhaps when I'm done I'll pay a visit to the pool._

* * *

**_Author's Note:_** Hope you guys are still with me!I know I suck at getting these updates out, but I assure you this story will be finished before season 3 airs (hell at the rate they are going, it'll be finished before they  _announce_ when it airs). As always, reviews are much appreciated, and thank you for being so patient!


	20. Chapter Twenty

Abigail retreats to her room in a frenzy of rage and self-hatred.

_How could I be so stupid?_ She asks herself.

She can't believe she ever started to trust him.

The man who warned her father the police were coming, thereby leading to her mother's murder. The man who killed her best friend, and mounted her like an animal. The man who led her to kill an innocent young man. The man who maimed her and cut off her ear… who framed Will Graham for terrible crimes he did not commit.

_The Chesapeake Ripper._

She thinks of the body wrapped in plastic garbage bags downstairs, and Abigail's stomach twists nauseatingly. Rushing into the bathroom and falling to her knees before the toilet, she is violently sick.

Heaving until all that is left is bile and tears, she curls up in a ball on the cold tiled floor.

Hannibal does what he does best. He chooses not to feel, or at least tries not to. Abigail's rejection and sudden abhorrence does cut him, deeper than he'd like to admit, but, as with all things, Hannibal is certain he will be able to fix it.

So, he moves his attention to something else he does best: disposing of dead bodies.

The man in the pantry is easy enough to take care of. He doesn't waste his time making an elaborate display, as he intended originally, thinking Abigail would probably not appreciate it.

Before leaving to dump the body, Hannibal inspects Abigail's cleaning job in the kitchen. She did remarkable work.

Satisfied, he takes the newly deceased Mr. Grant to his car and stows him in the trunk with the bag of Abigail's bloodied clothing.

Later, when the evidence and body are all gone, while Abigail still lies in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, Hannibal goes for a swim to clear his mind.

Not one to second-guess himself often, he doesn't know how to handle the idea that perhaps he was wrong to force Abigail to kill again. Hannibal has always seen a likeness in her, something that reflects himself, but perhaps he was wrong.

At least a little.

_Is it possible I have been mistaken? Has my attention been misplaced?_

He swims faster, hoping the water will wash away his worries. He spins and kicks off hard from the pool wall, heading back towards the other end of the pool.

Hannibal barely has a chance to register there is someone else in the room before the dart hits him. The tranquilizer works instantly, and everything fades to black as his lungs fill with what feels like fire.

The pain in his throat is the first thing he is aware of; it burns. His throat feels raw, and the taste of chlorine and the pressure on his windpipe isn't helping.

Next, Hannibal becomes aware of the cold. The air is drawing goose bumps on his damp skin, and there is something cold, metal, and unstable beneath his feet.

When he can finally open his eyes, and force them to focus, he sees the orderly from the hospital. His synapses firing, things begin to click into place for him.

This is the man who killed the bailiff and sent Will an ear. This is the man that tried to free Will Graham.

The orderly begins talking, and talking, rattling on and on, but it takes most of Hannibal's focus to remain balanced on the bucket, lest he slip and the noose snap his neck.

No matter the blood seeping from his wrists, Hannibal will not be the one to end his own life.

As the orderly speaks, only one thing seems to register.

_Will sent him to kill me._

The last thing Hannibal remembers before waking up in a hospital bed is Jack Crawford saving his life.

The first thing he thinks of when he wakes up is Abigail, and if she is okay.

When Abigail doesn't hear Hannibal return that night, she doesn't think anything of it. She just assumes he's dealing with the body of her latest victim, and maybe giving her some space.

She hopes that'll stick.

Abigail has the terrible feeling that, if given the chance, Hannibal would be able to find the exact right words to earn her forgiveness, and she doesn't want to forgive him.

Yes, she's told herself from the beginning she's only played along with him to keep herself safe, but it is now to the point where Abigail can no longer lie to herself.

Hannibal Lecter does have control over her.

_To some extent, anyway,_ she thinks begrudgingly, furious at herself.

Try as she might, she's still let him under her skin, and there is part of her… a small, lost, and desperate part of her… that  _likes_ it.

_When everything is uncertain, and I don't know what to do, is it so bad to have someone looking out for me?_  She asks herself, but then scoffs,  _forcing you to murder or let yourself be hurt is hardly the kind of 'looking out' for I need._

When Hannibal doesn't return at all the next day, she starts to wonder if it is some sort of trick.

_Is he trying to recreate what happened after Will kidnapped him? Because that won't work on me this time!_

Several times throughout the day, she reminds herself she doesn't care where he is. She doesn't want anything to do with Hannibal, and since her door is unlocked, she really doesn't need him anyway.

As night falls, and the shadows in her room take on a menacing quality, Abigail briefly wonders if perhaps he's given her up as a lost cause and left for Europe on his own.

She shakes her head to dispel the thought.

_He doesn't give up that easily._

Another thought occurs to her, and she shivers uncomfortably.

_And if he has decided I'm a lost cause, he wouldn't leave me hanging around as a loose end._

Feeling frustrated with all of Hannibal's mind games, and almost positive he's just playing with her again, Abigail marches downstairs. She may not be a master manipulator, but she still knows how to screw with him.

First, she makes her way to his harpsichord, where all of his music sheets are spread out from his composing. She takes his pencil, and a small notepad, and begins to scribble aimlessly.

When she's satisfied the pencil has been dulled enough, Abigail replaces it exactly where she found, and steals the scalpel from beside it.

Then she moves into his study. Here she rearranges a handful of his books, putting them purposefully out of his meticulous alphabetical order. She loosens the light bulb in his desk lamp, just enough to give it a flicker, and then shuffles the papers laid on the desk's surface into a new order.

Finally, wearing an evil smirk, she makes her way to the kitchen. Abigail briefly considers leaving the freezer door open to let everything thaw and spoil, but decides that is more of a dishonor to those probably bagged and portioned up in there, than it is to Hannibal.

Instead she decides to move the utensils around. Changing the drawer the measuring spoons are in, rotating the jars in the cupboards so the labels don't face out, and mussing all of his carefully folded dishtowels.

It may not seem like much, but Abigail knows it will drive a perfectionist like Hannibal crazy.

She's still wearing a satisfied smirk when she falls asleep.

Hannibal returns home the following morning. The sound of the front door slamming wakes Abigail from what was a surprisingly peaceful night of sleep.

She can hear voices.

Blinking rapidly, trying to make herself more alert, Abigail slips out of bed and tiptoes over to her bedroom door.

Even with ear pressed to keyhole she can't make out who is down there. Quietly she cracks her door.

"I'm fine, I assure you," Hannibal is saying.

"I know you keep saying that, but you're still very pale."

It's Alana.

"I am a doctor, I know my limits."

"At least let me help you upstairs," Dr. Bloom is insisting.

"Yes, thank you," Hannibal relents, and Abigail closes her door.

She sits on the floor, back pressed to her door, listening to the sounds of Hannibal and Alana climbing the stairs.

_Is that where he's been? With Alana?_

Jealousy sparks in Abigail's chest, but she ignores it, reminding herself it doesn't matter because she wants nothing to do with him.

"Will you be alright on your own?" Alana asks, just as they pass Abigail's door. "I could stay."

"Thank you for your diligence, Dr. Bloom, but I won't keep you. I do appreciate all of your help though."

They pass further down the hall, and the next thing Abigail hears, is mumbling from the direction of Hannibal's room.

After five, maybe ten minutes, Alana passes back down the hall, downstairs, and out the front door.

Breathing a small sigh of relief, Abigail gets up off the floor, and goes to her bathroom.

After she relieves herself, and brushes away her morning breath, Abigail reenters her room, only to freeze in her tracks.

Hannibal is there, sitting on the edge of her bed, waiting for her.

He's dressed in pajama pants and a red sweater, but the arms are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his heavily bandaged wrists.

Fighting curiosity, she shakes her head at him.

"I've said all I have to say to you," she tells him.

"Then just listen," Hannibal remarks, voice clear and emotionless. "I just thought you would like to know that Will Graham attempted to have me murdered… and he very nearly succeeded."

He holds up his wrists as evidence.

"Perhaps that will help ease the guilt you feel about Will being behind bars," he says.

Unable to help herself, she snorts.

"Really? You're trying to take the moral high ground here? He tried to have you killed because you framed him for  _murder_. You pushed him. That's what you do, you poke and prod and push people until they have to push back. I don't blame Will for what he did, or tried to do."

"Do you wish he had succeeded?" Hannibal asks, his eyes searching.

She opens her mouth to speak, but the words die on her tongue.

After a few moments, she shrugs half-heartedly.

"I honestly don't know."

Hannibal nods slowly and stands up. He looks as if he wants to say something, but he doesn't, instead leaving her alone with her confused thoughts and the image of his expression burned into her mind.

* * *

**Author's Note:** We will be sticking with the majority of the season 2 story line, so there may be events that are only grazed over in the hope you remember the story from the show. Mainly those parts that we glaze over will be from Hannibal's point of view, but will include more in depth responses from Abigail. I hope you are still with me on this! I am really hoping to have this story all wrapped up before the season 3 premier, so things should be moving along a bit faster now :) As always, reviews are very, very, appreciated!


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

Avoiding Hannibal soon becomes a full time task for Abigail.

After his near death experience, Hannibal decides to take time off of work, and unfortunately for her, he decides to remain at home most days.

She starts by trying to keep herself confined to her room, but it doesn't take long for her to get antsy; she's become too reliant to being able to roam the house.

Abigail wants to venture down to the basement to work out, and burn some of her nervous energy off, but she doesn't want to face Hannibal. And, if she's being honest with herself, she doesn't know if she can bring herself to train anymore.

She had thought Hannibal was teaching her so she could defend herself, but he just wanted to make her a better hunter… just as her father had.

_Their intentions don't matter_ , she reminds herself.  _My choices do. And I do want to defend myself if need be._

After two days of seclusion, and two nights of ignoring Hannibal's offered dinner invitation from outside her door, she stands frozen, trying to force herself to reach for the door knob.

Music is drifting upstairs, and she knows Hannibal is at the harpsichord composing. If she's quick, Abigail might even be able to slip downstairs and into the basement without him noticing.

Breathing deeply, she takes the plunge and opens her door.

Listening to the lilting melody, she tiptoes down the stairs, cringing as the last step creaks.

The music in the other room stops, along with her heart, but after a few moments it picks up again, and she assumes he was just making a new notation.

Once she makes it into the basement, Abigail breathes freely again, though, she still chastises herself for her weakness.

_You know better than to let his honeyed words fool you._

_Do I? What if I want to be fooled?_

Transferring her anger at herself into the already burning anger she has for Hannibal, Abigail does some warm up stretches before turning her attention to a large punching bag.

Imagining it is Hannibal she's attacking, Abigail throws herself into her training. She falls into the rhythm of her punches, her wrath and resentment creating her own internal melody.

Upstairs, while pausing in his composition, Hannibal can hear Abigail's grunts and cries, confirming that he was right when he thought he heard her come down earlier.

While he would like to go watch her train, or even help her, he knows she would not allow it. She is still avoiding him.

Hannibal suspects that were Abigail to spend more than five minutes in the same room as him, he would be able to explain, to make her understand, why he did what he did. He also suspects she knows this, and that is why she is avoiding him.

When at last the sounds of her training begin to quiet, Hannibal rises from his harpsichord and goes to the kitchen.

When Abigail is too exhausted to continue, she quietly makes her way up the basement stairs, and presses her ear against the pantry door. Music is still filling the house and she sighs gratefully, glad to slip past unnoticed once more.

Pulling the pantry door open, Abigail steps into the kitchen, only to stop dead in her tracks when she sees Hannibal.

"I made you some lunch," he says conversationally, glancing up at her.

Too late, she realizes that the music is a recording.

"I'm not hungry," she lies, and her stomach gurgles, giving her away.

"Nonsense. You were down there for quite a while. I hope turkey is alright."

He holds up a sandwich to show her, before setting it back down on a plate and cutting it in half.

She can't help but swallow uncomfortably when she sees the knife in his hand, not entirely certain he's ruled out getting rid of her since his plan to control her backfired.

Placing the knife back on the counter, Hannibal picks up the plate and walks around the center isle to stand right in front of Abigail.

He holds the plate out for her, but she doesn't take it.

"Abigail, I wish you would talk to me about what happened."

"I don't think there is anything to talk about," she says, trying to make her quavering voice sound as steely as possible.

_You can't… you can't forgive him._

"If you would only let me explain, I—" Hannibal is abruptly cut off when she jumps forward, stretches onto her tiptoes, and kisses him.

He's momentarily caught off guard, and stands there, frozen, until his body responds of it's own will. Her form pressed up against his, and those familiar lips softly urging him, erase all other thoughts.

Slowly, he lets his free hand wrap around her waist.

Then, as quick as it happened, she pulls away.

Hannibal blinks, dazedly, as she gives him an unreadable expression, takes the plate from him and walks away.

It isn't until much later, after collecting his thoughts on the incident, he considers that perhaps she didn't really want to kiss him, and that maybe she was that desperate  _not_ to talk.

While her last ditch effort to avoid discussion with Hannibal worked, Abigail realizes as she lies in bed that night, that it was a double-edged sword. While yes, it prevented him from spinning the lies she suspects she'd believe, it also reminded her of what she is missing.

Her bed feels cold and empty, and the longing she feels goes far beyond that of logic. No matter how many times she tells herself Hannibal is not good for her, it does nothing to lessen her ache.

Hannibal is toxic. She knows this… but he's also addicting, and Abigail is longing for a fix.

When she hears his footsteps pass in front of her door, she has to bury her face in her pillow to stop from calling out to him.

_How can my mind and my body be calling so desperately for two different things?_ Abigail wonders.

Her body wants nothing more than to wrap around his, but her mind is screaming disagreement.

_I will not let someone else shape who I am, and make my decisions for me._

The next day Abigail stays in her room once more, not risking another trip to the basement. She's not sure she'd be able to pull away if she were once again forced to stop Hannibal from speaking.

When he comes to her door with another request that she join him for dinner, she ignores him, but can't stop her feet from carrying her to the door.

She can hear him breathing, just on the other side, and raises her hand to rest on the cold wood between them.

"Abigail?"

She shakes her head, despite the fact he can't see her, and backs away, retreating to the bathroom.

_You need to break this hold he has on you… before you lose what little there is of_ you  _left._

In an attempt to drown her problems, at least for a little while, Abigail draws herself a bath.

Hannibal can hear the water running from downstairs, where he sits alone at a table set for two.

Feeling his temper rise as he looks over the wasted elaborate display, he begins to wonder if perhaps he's taken the wrong approach to the situation with Abigail.

He rips his napkin from his lap and throws it, wadded up, on the table. Sliding away from the table, Hannibal stands up and marches up the stairs.

Not stopping once he reaches her room, he walks straight to the bathroom and throws open the door without knocking.

Abigail is reclined in the bath and he has a brief flashback to her first night here, when she tried to drown herself.

Jumping at his intrusion, Abigail slops water over the side of the tub as she tries to cover herself.

"Hannibal! Get out," she orders, reaching for her towel.

Hannibal is quicker, and snatches it away.

"We need to talk, Abigail."

"I told you I don't want to talk about it, and your little mind games and—and power plays won't work this time."

Abigail stands up in the tub, spreading her arms wide.

"Take a good look," she sneers. "It's not like you haven't seen it before. You think you can just burst in and make me feel vulnerable so you can spin your pretty explanations and make me forget what you did."

"I'm not asking you to forget," he says, "and I'm not asking you to forgive."

She crosses her arms, more out of skepticism than modesty.

"We don't even have to talk about what happened," he insists, "but we do have to talk. So, are you ready to listen, or am I going to have to make you?"

She glares at him defiantly.

"Abigail," his voice is a warning, "you won't like it if I have to make you."

With a heavy sigh, she sits back down in the tub.

"Say what you need to," she says.

"Good choice."

Hannibal goes into her room to fetch the seat from her vanity, refusing to sit on the closed toilet lid.

Once he situates himself beside the tub he begins.

"This cannot continue. We cannot be at odds with each other this close to making our escape."

"Our escape?" she questions.

"Yes.  _Our_ escape. I said I would protect you, and that protection doesn't end just because you are upset with me."

"When are we leaving?"

"Soon, very soon. I just have something to take care of before we go. I have to give the FBI the Chesapeake Ripper."

"I—I don't understand," Abigail stutters. "You're not going to—"

"No, I am not turning myself in."

"You're framing someone else?"

"I won't go into details about it now, but in a few weeks the FBI will have undeniable proof that I am not the Chesapeake Ripper, and I will fall from their radar completely. Then we can slip away," Hannibal explains, "and once we have settled into our new identities, if you still wish to… have nothing to do with me, then we may go our separate ways."

"You would still take me, knowing I would leave you?"

"I would," he says solemnly, nodding. "Now, that being said, I'm going to need your help with a few things in the weeks to come. And that would be much easier if we could at least be civil with one another. Do you think we could manage that?"

She swallows loudly, and nods almost imperceptibly.

"Excellent. I know you are upset with me, and that you may not agree with my methods, but never doubt how much I care for you, Abigail. I would do anything to protect you… even let you go," he tells her, almost sadly.

Hannibal leans over the edge of the tub and cups her cheek, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"Now, why don't you get dressed and join me for dinner. It's probably gone cold, but I'll see to it. Alright?"

"Alright," she croaks, reaching once again for her towel, only this time Hannibal hands it to her.

After they come to their agreement, to any outsider it would appear they put the past behind them. Appearances, however, can be deceiving.

While Abigail does stop hiding in her room, she doesn't go so far as to encourage conversation with Hannibal, and any exchanges between them are oddly formal.

If she must ask Hannibal for anything, such as help reaching a tall shelf, or to pass the salt at dinner, she makes sure to keep her voice and face neutral. It is the same when he asks her a question, or attempts to talk about something at length.

If she were honest with herself, Abigail would admit she's actually quite proud of how she's mirroring Hannibal's usual expressionlessness.

However, it seems Hannibal feels quite the opposite about her new behavior.

On one particular night, Abigail pushes the formality even further and finally seems to pull the last straw.

"How are you enjoying the new art books I brought you?" Hannibal asks.

They are both in his study; Hannibal sipping an evening brandy, and Abigail pretending to pay attention to some dusty old medical book instead of the way Hannibal's sleeves are rolled up and how his top three buttons are undone on his dress shirt, revealing a dusting of chest hair.

"They are very interesting, thank you," she says, glancing up briefly, and then back down at the same page she's been on for twenty minutes.

"And the new paper? I've recently tried it myself and find that it is much less prone to smudging, wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed. I've noticed little smudging."

"Perhaps you might show me what you've been working on sometime," he presses.

"Perhaps."

"Is there anything else you need? I would be more than happy to provide you with almost anything, Abigail."

"While I appreciate the offer, I am quite content. Thank you, Dr. Lecter."

She doesn't look up as she speaks, and she doesn't need to. She can feel his anger rolling off of him in waves.

Hannibal, so good at closing others out, hates to be the one outside the door. He slams back the rest of his drink and storms out of the room.

Abigail doesn't look up from her book until she hears his keys jingle and the front door slam shut.

Part of her wants to chase after him, but another part reminds her that if she lets her guard down, he will use her again and again, until he molds her into whatever it is he dreamed she'd become.

The next day Hannibal tells her over breakfast that she'll need to stay in her room and be quiet come dinner time, because Alana is coming over.

Sensing he wants to get a rise out her, Abigail just shrugs and continues eating.

She doesn't see him again until late that night, after she hears Alana drive off.

Hannibal comes up to bring Abigail some leftover dessert.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

She perches on the edge of her bed to eat the berry tart he brought her, and Hannibal lingers just inside the doorway.

"Alana says she can't forgive Will for what he did to me," he says.

"That's only because she doesn't know the truth," Abigail replies, trying not to scoff too hard and spit tart everywhere.

He watches her, eyes calculating and predatory.

"I'm having a dinner party in a few days. There will be lots of guests, and I have some caterers coming to help me with the finishing touches. There will be people in and out of here all day. You'll need to stay hidden."

"Naturally. What's the party for?"

"It is essential to our departure."

Before she can ask any more questions, or inquire if he'd like help, Hannibal takes her empty dessert plate and wishes her a goodnight.

The day of Hannibal's dinner party, Abigail wakes up to find a silver platter waiting on the floor just inside her door. It's laden with fruit, nuts, and other foods that won't spoil.

_No note_ , she thinks, slightly disappointed.

Out of curiosity she tries her door handle and finds it locked. She wonders if it is to keep people out, or if he doesn't trust her and it is to keep  _her_ in.

_If he didn't trust me, he wouldn't let me stay up here where I could possibly make noise or yell to draw attention._

_He'd probably just give me a pill to knock me out._

Abigail looks at the platter again, suddenly suspicious, and decides to eat from her own stores today.

Listening intently she can hear Hannibal's booming voice instructing caterers and decorators on where they should be.

As the day drags on, Abigail finds it harder and harder to focus on anything but the sounds from downstairs.

Once, in the afternoon, Hannibal checks in on her to see if she needs anything. When she assures him she's fine he leaves, this time not locking the door.

At dusk she can hear the first guests arriving, and she realizes just how badly she misses other people.

Abigail has never really been fond of people in general, but after so long of communicating with no one but Hannibal, she would love to be in a room full of people.

She tries to keep herself busy, but just can't focus on anything, her mind keeps drifting, wondering what it would be like to attend one of Hannibal's parties.

Eventually Abigail lies back on her bed and allows herself to daydream.

_I would wear something sexy, but classy, something Hannibal would love… a little black dress with a string of pearls._

At least in her fantasies she doesn't have to worry about Hannibal trying to control her.

_I'd wear my hair down to hide my ear, but every once in a while, when I would be talking to someone, and I'd feel Hannibal's eyes on me from across the room, I would tilt my head_ just so _and reveal my scar._

She imagines how his gaze would burn, his passion growing with her brazenness and the ease with which she traverses the crowd.

_Maybe I'd even flirt a little bit, just to see Hannibal's jealousy spike. He'd glide across the room, still maintaining the façade of gracious host, and politely take my arm to ask for my assistance in the kitchen._

_As soon as we get out of the sight of the guests, Hannibal would have me pressed against a wall, his teeth nipping my neck as he pins my arms above my head with one hand._

_His other hand would slip under my skirt and edge up my thigh…_

Abigail sits up in bed, and takes a deep steadying breath, feeling ridiculously flustered.

Whatever logical part of her brain that has been reminding her to stay away from Hannibal, that he can't be trusted after he yet again tricked her into killing someone, is silent now, drowned out by her hormones and lust.

In this moment Abigail doesn't give a damn about anything other than feeling her body pressed against his.

Downstairs the noise is growing quieter and quieter, and she hopes the party is almost over.

Abigail picks out one of her more revealing nightgowns and readies herself to surprise him.

She can hear footsteps on the stairs and…  _laughing?_

There is someone else with Hannibal.

She sees the shadows of two sets of feet pass her door and scowls.

_He's probably just showing off more of his art collection._

However, when the feet do not pass back by her door within ten, fifteen, twenty minutes she starts to wonder what is going on.

Pressing her good ear to the far wall of her room, she can hear muffled voices, and she thinks more laughter.

Her stomach turns uncomfortably.

Finally, after more than forty minutes from when the pair first came upstairs, a single set of feet pass her door again.

Downstairs she hears the front door open and close.

Deciding to risk it, Abigail slips out of her room and treads quietly towards Hannibal's.

His lights are off, but she can see him in bed.

_No…_

It's not Hannibal in his bed, it's Alana Bloom.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Wow! This was a long chapter! I just wanted to get us up through the dinner party. I hope you enjoyed it, I know it was a lot more introspection than interaction, but I really wanted Abigail's confusion and inner turmoil to come through. As always, reviews are very much appreciated!


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

_Alana Bloom._

_Why is Alana Bloom in Hannibal's bed?_

Disbelief drives her forward.

Abigail approaches the edge of the bed, and stares down at the slumbering Dr. Bloom.

Her hair is fanned out around her, leaving her looking like a sleeping princess, with a slight smile on her face.

_More like a sleeping whore,_  Abigail thinks bitterly.

As the shock begins to dissipate, fury takes over. In that moment all she wants to do is hurt the woman sleeping in front of her.

A feral instinct flares in Abigail's belly and she wants to lash out.

As she's debating smashing the empty wine glass against Alana's head, common sense takes over.

_No, no,_  she tries to calm herself,  _don't. This isn't Alana's fault. It's Hannibal's. This is… is some sort of payback; another level of his game._

Taking a deep, but shaky, breath, Abigail backs away from the bed, retreating to the hallway.

First she thinks tears will come, but they don't, and she realizes she is beyond that.

_Perhaps he can no longer hurt me?_ She wonders.  _Or maybe he's finally taught me to control my emotions._

She laughs humorlessly, imaging this is all just another way for him to teach her something new.

_We've both been playing our own games, I suppose. He's been trying to turn me into an emotionless zombie like him, and I've been urging him to feel… well, anything._

Closing herself back in her room, Abigail decides that the game is far from over.

Across town, Hannibal is finding his way into Abel Gideon's hospital room unnoticed. Sadly for the guard on duty, unnoticed just won't do.

After ensuring Gideon is knocked out cold, and unable to raise an alarm, Hannibal deals with the infirmary guard.

Timing himself, Hannibal finishes his display of stringing up the guard with fishing lures almost seven minutes faster than he had anticipated.

Smiling behind his doctor's mask, he casually strolls down the hall and to the elevator, pushing a sleeping Gideon's gurney.

On the drive home, Hannibal wonders how Abigail and Alana are doing. He knows they should both be soundly sleeping, but he wonders if he made a mistake leaving Abigail's door unlocked.

_No, there was enough in her food to put her out for the night,_  he reassures himself, hoping she ate enough of her dinner for the sleeping pills to be effective.

Once home, Hannibal lugs Gideon down into the basement, setting him up on his chopping block, with an IV to keep him under, and hydrated.

He hurries upstairs, needing to get back in bed with Alana. He suspects it won't be long before the guard is discovered, and shortly after that the FBI will be at his door.

Hannibal slips quietly past Abigail's door, but a noise from her room makes him pause.

She's whimpering.

_If she has a nightmare it could wake Alana._

He presses his ear against the door; there's a gasp and another sound he can't identify… a buzzing.

_Oh._

He understands just as he hears her whimper again.

"Ah," she pants, and Hannibal feels his lust begin to rise.

"Oh, uh…  _Will_ ," Abigail croons, just as she moans her completion. "Will…"

Gritting his teeth, Hannibal marches towards his room, no longer trying to be stealthy.

In her bed, Abigail sits up with a satisfied smile, though it's a completely different sort of satisfaction from what Hannibal is imaging.

She turns of the bullet sitting on the bed next to her and drops it back in the drawer of her nightstand.

_Not the intended use, but it sure was satisfying,_  she thinks, curling up to her pillow.

The next morning the doorbell rings rather early, waking Abigail up much sooner than she'd like.

She can hear mumbling from beyond the bedroom wall and grimaces, knowing Alana is still next door.

After a moment she hears Hannibal's heavy footfalls head downstairs. Not long after, Alana follows.

Knowing better, realizing what a terrible idea it is, Abigail slips out of bed and cracks open her door.

She can't hear what's being said, so testing her luck she sneaks halfway down the stairs to better listen.

From what she can make out, Jack Crawford seems to be on to Hannibal.

_Took him long enough,_  she thinks, rolling her eyes.

_Oh yeah, there is this super smart, artistic, cannibalistic serial killer running around, but lets totally ignore the surgeon-turned-psychiatrist who spends more time than physically possible preparing meals, and decorates his table with bones and shit._

Again, Abigail considers how much better she thinks she would be as an FBI agent.

_Maybe I will come back one day with my new identity…_

Alana starts talking, speaking up for Hannibal, giving him an alibi.

_Oh…_

Abigail shakes her head.

_No. He still didn't have to sleep with her. He could have found another alibi._

The front door is closing and Abigail turns tail and runs back up to her room, closing the door behind her just as she hears someone step onto the stairs.

Not sure if she'll even be allowed out of her room today, Abigail dresses, deciding she won't let Hannibal see more of her than he needs too anymore.

She slips into a green sweater-dress, choosing it for the cover the turtleneck offers. Abigail leaves her hair down as well, knowing how much hiding her scar and ear will annoy him.

Next door, Abigail can hear Hannibal's shower turn on, and she swallows back the bile that rises in her throat, imagining him in there with Alana… in a space he shared with  _her_.

When her door opens, Abigail jumps noticeably.

It's Hannibal.

"Good morning," she says casually, turning her back to him and continuing to brush her hair.

"Good morning," he replies stiffly. "As you may have noticed we have a visitor."

"Oh, do we?"

"Indeed. Dr. Bloom. She's busy at the moment, in my shower."

He pauses there, as if expecting a reaction, but she refuses to give up any of her swirling emotions.

"I will be needing your help," he continues.

"You want me to burn your sheets?" she asks, unable to help herself.

"That won't be necessary, I'll probably be needing them again. I need your help with our  _other_ visitor. He's in the basement, and may be stirring soon."

"Other visitor?"

"Yes, Dr. Abel Gideon. I'd like you to go keep him company, and ensure he remains quiet. I would sedate him further, but I'd rather not put any more drugs into his system."

"How— how would you like me to—?" she stutters, fearing what he's asking.

"Don't worry, I don't think extreme measure will be needed. Just let him know to be patient, and the Chesapeake Ripper will be with him shortly."

"And  _that_ is going to keep him quiet?"

"Oh, yes. Dr. Gideon has been dying to meet me," Hannibal quips. "Hurry down, Alana is quite efficient, I don't think she'll be in there much longer."

Abigail sets her brush down on the vanity and stands, smoothing the creases of her dress out.

She approaches the door, but Hannibal doesn't move from her way.

Refusing to be cowed she turns sideways to slip past him, pressing her rear into him as she passes. She doesn't glance back to see his reaction.

It's not until she's on the basement stairs that she begins to hesitate.

_What if this is another trick? Another trap?_

She tells herself that she is in control of her actions, breathes deep, and descends the stairs.

When she finds Dr. Gideon, she sees that there is nothing to fear from this man. His injuries seem extensive, and he isn't going anywhere, let alone attacking her.

However, she is surprised to find that he is already awake when she approaches.

"Surely, I can't be dead yet," he says, his voice just a bit hoarse. "You like an angel, and there are none of those where I am going."

"Hello, Dr. Gideon," she greets, trying to mimic Hannibal's cool and calm voice, but failing. "I'm here to inform you that the Chesapeake Ripper w—will be with you shortly, and that he request you remain quiet."

"I know you," Gideon says, not acknowledging Abigail just spoke. "You're that girl; the Shrike's daughter. Maybe I am dead… you're supposed to be."

"I assure you we are both alive," she sighs, "but I can't guarantee here is any better than hell."

Dr. Gideon chuckles.

"What are you doing here daughter-of-the-Shrike? Following in Daddy's footsteps? Have you found yourself a new teacher?"

"My name is  _Abigail_."

"Not that you shouldn't be proud of your father, but boy have you gone up in the world when it comes to teachers. Your father was the equivalent of a community college teacher's aide, whereas now you're studying in the Ivy League master class with the top tenured professor."

"That's not why I'm here," she argues. "I don't want to be like him; like either of them."

"Baby bird wants to spread her wings and make her own way, I understand. May I offer you a piece of advice?"

"I doubt I could stop you."

"Fly away," Dr. Gideon tells her, his eyes becoming extremely lucid. "As soon as that cage door opens, fly away. If you don't, you'll never be free of them. Even then you won't be free. You'll have to work hard to break that tether."

Abigail doesn't say anything, only nods slightly.

The basement goes quiet, and they can hear footsteps echoing overhead. Some of them distinctly coming from high heels.

Gritting her teeth and glaring at the ceiling, Abigail can't stand the silence.

"Why do you want to meet the Ripper?" she probes. "He's a monster."

"Perhaps I'll call you Little Red," he says instead of answering. "She was in love with the wolf, you know."

"Why do you want to meet him?"

"Because I was told I  _was_ him. I was made to believe it, and now I wish to know what of me is actually me, and what is him."

"You can't trust what he tells you," Abigail sighs.

"Oh, Little Red, I knew that already. Has it taken you the hard way to find out?"

They don't speak again until Hannibal comes downstairs for them.

"Here comes the Big Bad Wolf, Little Red. Spread your wings," Dr. Gideon mumbles, and Abigail wonders how crazy this man really is.

Hannibal doesn't speak to either of them; instead he heads straight to the wall of tools and weapons and begins making selections.

That night Abigail refuses to join Hannibal and Dr. Gideon for dinner. While yesterday she had been longing for someone new to talk to, that wish wasn't strong enough for her to watch a man eat his own leg.

The next day Hannibal is called in for questioning. Apparently the FBI found some woman named Miriam, and it is a big deal.

Abigail gets frustrated when Hannibal won't tell her any more.

When he leaves, Abigail ventures back down to the basement.

Her stomach twists when she sees Dr. Gideon, sans leg.

_He may be just as crazy as Hannibal, but that is just too far._

"How are you?" she asks, when she sees he is awake.

"Just peachy," he replies sarcastically.

"Sorry, dumb question. I'm sorry about what he did to you."

"You are different from them, aren't you, Little Red?" he says thoughtfully. "Remember what I told you."

"I can't just fly away. I need— I need what he can offer me."

"No one is free," he says, and then slips into incoherent mumbling.

Wishing she wouldn't have went to see him, Abigail returns to her room.

The next day, over dinner, Hannibal reveals that Will has been released from prison, and that Dr. Chilton was identified by an eyewitness as being the Ripper.

"An eyewitness?" she asks.

Hannibal just nods.

"And Dr. Gideon?"

"Let's just say having one leg, or no legs, matters little to him in his current state."

_Fly away,_  she thinks, wondering if there is peace for people like them after death.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Anyone else getting SUPER excited for June 4th?? Let me know what you think!


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

One morning over breakfast, Hannibal tells Abigail that Will has restarted his therapy.

"With who?" she asks, unable to help herself from being pulled into conversation.

"With me."

Abigail, who has just taken a sip of orange juice, snorts into her cup.

Hannibal is not amused.

"You're serious?" she questions.

"Indeed, I am."

"But… he knows you're the Ripper. Doesn't he? He doesn't actually think it was Chilton, does he?"

"I am quite certain he believes Dr. Chilton is innocent, yes," Hannibal nods.

"Then what is he doing?"

Knowing Will thinks Hannibal killed her, Abigail feels the slightest twinge of betrayal.

"I think that a door once opened cannot be closed. Will has tasted the darkness within himself, and wants more. He knows I can assist him."

She doesn't voice her disagreement about doors not being able to close.

_My door is closed… and dead bolted… with one of those little chain things._

"I thought we were leaving now. You said we would after you were in the clear."

"Do you miss Will?" he asks, ignoring her question.

_I miss everyone,_  she muses, remembering how much she had enjoyed speaking to even the deranged Dr. Gideon.

"He was very kind to me," she says carefully, "and… I suppose I did feel a sort of bond between us. I still do. Yes, I miss him."

She leaves out that the strongest bond between them is the way Hannibal had turned them both into puppets.

"Would you like to see him?"

_Is this a trick?_

"Not at the expense of his life," Abigail insists. "I know you wouldn't let a witness live who knew I was alive."

"Not live here, at least," Hannibal corrects. "What if I could persuade Will to join us? To leave the country with us?"

He watches her closely, and she doesn't know how to respond; doesn't know what the correct answer is.

She wonders if this has anything to do with her fake calling out Will's name as Hannibal walked by her room the other night.

"I—I don't know," she says, honestly.

"Given enough time, I am positive Will Graham will see things my way. Then we could all be together."

Abigail nods slowly, still not sure how to respond.

It isn't until later she thinks about what he truly said.

" _Then we could all be together."_

_Together._

Alone in her room, Abigail wonders if that's what this is really about. She wonders if Will is a peace offering, meant to tie her to Hannibal, so she won't leave him when they escape the country.

_I couldn't condemn Will to that. Couldn't condemn myself…_

That night Hannibal brings her dinner in her room; Will and Jack are coming over so it's a "dining in" night for her.

He's prepared her another of his special personal pizzas, and a gooey brownie.

Abigail suspects it is an apology for making her hide yet again, but then she catches the scent of Alana's perfume on Hannibal as he slips by, and she understands it's an apology for something else.

Her appetite all but vanishes.

When she hears the guests arrive, Abigail waits until she knows they are seated before slipping out of her room and down the stairs, being sure to skip the squeaky step.

The small talk is so polite she can't help but roll her eyes. These are definitely three men who have been at odds.

"None of our actions were personal," Jack says in response to one of Hannibal's pompous, over analyzing, comments about fish.

"I tried to kill Hannibal," Will pipes up, "isn't that personal?"

Abigail has to cover her mouth to stop the laughter that threatens to spill over into the awkward silence coming from the other room.

She forgot how sardonic Will could be.

After listening for a little longer, she sneaks back up to her room, unable to shake the idea of Will coming with them, and how it could actually be really nice.

She doesn't see Hannibal much over the next few days, now that he's back to working with the FBI and playing with Will's mind.

With how hard she had worked to avoid him, Abigail would almost be grateful… if it weren't for the fact that Hannibal kept coming home smelling of another woman.

She tries not to let him see how badly it tears at her; after all,  _she_ pushed him away.

_Yeah, after he manipulated you yet again, and forced you to kill some innocent guy._

_He wasn't that innocent,_  she counters, remembering the attack all too clearly.

Hannibal, meanwhile, misinterprets her lack of response.

It doesn't occur to him that Abigail is finally doing what he's tried to teach her, and is hiding her emotions. Instead he reads her disinterest as a sign she truly wants away from him.

So, he doubles his efforts to lure Will over.

He works closely with Will on the case of the dead girl found in the horse, and sees how hard this case hits. It hits hard for Hannibal as well, especially when they find the other graves.

All of those innocent young girls, who so resemble his Abigail.

That night when Hannibal returns home it is very late. He stands quietly outside Abigail's door, listening.

The sound of shifting blankets assures him she is asleep (she holds perfectly still when she is pretending to sleep), and he lets himself into her room.

She looks so peaceful in sleep, her face relaxed and looking more at comfort than he's seen in weeks.

Standing over her he asks himself how he could have miscalculated so greatly? How could he have pushed her so far away?

Abigail whimpers in her sleep, and he kneels besides her, shushing gently.

A strand of hair is in her face and Hannibal reaches out to adjust it. When his hand brushes her cheek, Abigail stops whimpering, turning into his touch.

_Even if I can't have her as my own, I cannot lose her. Will must come with us._

He leans in to place a chaste kiss on her forehead before slipping away, back to his own room, which now feels colder than ever before.

The following morning, Abigail briefly recalls a dream of Hannibal and blushes.

It's not that she hasn't dreamt of him before, she does all the time. Her dreams are usually a bit more…  _carnal._

This one, though, was intimate in another way.

It was just him beside her, calming her, and keeping her safe.

She's much more embarrassed than she would be if she had a sex dream.

From the way Hannibal keeps watching her from across the breakfast table, she wonders if her thoughts are showing.

He soon draws her mind away from her own conflicted feelings, telling her about his newest patient; a young woman named Margot, who tried to kill her brother.

From what Hannibal shares, Abigail can't blame the woman from wanting to kill her brother.

_He sounds like a total psycho._

"What are you thinking?" Hannibal asks, as she stares intently at her plate.

"I was just thinking about your patient. Margot. I guess I can understand her actions."

"Oh? Do you empathize with her?"

"Well… yeah," Abigail replies, "I mean, I understand her. She felt trapped, completely at his mercy. She's reliant on her brother to survive, and he knows it. He uses it to his advantage, manipulating and molding her. Torturing her. Margot did the only thing she could. She struck out."

"Do you identify with her? You are currently reliant on me for survival. Do you feel trapped and completely at my mercy?"

"It's different for us," she mumbles.

"Why?" Hannibal presses.

"Her brother does what he does because he gets enjoyment from her suffering. His actions are entirely selfish… I don't believe that's what you are doing. Even though I don't agree with your methods," Abigail pauses to glare at him, "I do believe that, in your own twisted way, you think you are doing what's best for me."

He only nods noncommittally along with her assessment, and does not press her further.

After breakfast, Hannibal excuses himself for work, warning Abigail he will be late and that she should eat without him.

"Are you going to be with Will?"

"I am. After my normal sessions, I will be assisting with a new break in the latest case we are working on."

"The one about all those dead girls," she asks, shuddering. "And the body in the horse?"

_So she does listen to me,_  he thinks triumphantly, pleased to know that despite her feigned disinterest, she clearly follows what he says.

"Yes, they've brought in a new suspect for questioning."

"They're letting you interrogate him?"

"No, that would be Dr. Bloom, but I will assist in her assessment," he amends.

"I won't keep you from  _assisting_ Dr. Bloom," Abigail all but hisses, and marches away.

_There goes not letting him know it bothers you,_  she reprimands herself.

Once she's certain he's gone, Abigail recalls what she said over breakfast… and realizes it is true.

She truly does believe that Hannibal has only done what he thought he had to in order to protect her. Even in manipulating her to kill, while he was trying to make her more like him, it was because he thought it would give her strength and protect her.

Abigail groans.

_All that time trying to avoid him, and you're going to talk your own self around to see his side?_

_No, no, no…_

_He really thought it was going to help me. To keep me safe._

While Abigail spends the day internally debating herself, Hannibal spends it testing the waters with Will and trying to judge if he really is a viable companion to take with them.

Late that evening, after watching a social worker climb out of a dead horse (something that even registers as bizarre for Hannibal), Will gives the sign he's ready for the next step.

He tries to kill the social worker; and he would have succeeded had Hannibal not intervened.

On his drive home Hannibal muses over what the next step to take with Will is. He doesn't wish to miscalculate and ruin things.

_As I've done with Abigail._

He hopes that the correct choice will present itself to him when the time is right.

At home he heads straight for bed, pausing only to listen outside Abigail's door. The silence suggests she is lying awake, but he doesn't bother her.

When Hannibal walks into his room he sees he was only partially correct.

Abigail is awake, but she's sitting in the center of his bed.

"What's wrong?" he asks, instantly on alert for signs of danger.

"Nothing," she says, voice barely a whisper, "and everything."

Hannibal cautiously approaches, hesitating before perching at the edge of his mattress.

He waits for her to continue on her own, his sense telling him now is not the time to push.

"I'm so confused," Abigail finally admits, after a long stretch of silence. "I'm still so  _mad_ at you, for treating me like another patient you can screw with and manipulate… but I also know that you weren't doing it to be malicious. To me at least."

Hannibal waits again, allowing her to collect her thoughts before she continues.

"I want to hate you for trying to change me, but I also can't because I know you were trying to protect me."

"All I want is for you to be safe," Hannibal finally says.

"You have to understand, Hannibal, there are more ways for people to be safe, to protect themselves, than by just becoming like you. Look at my life! Look at who I was before I met you. I was a prisoner in my own home, to my own father, but I survived. I adapted to do what I had to, and I survived."

"Until you didn't," he counters. "You would have died had I not been there to save you."

"But you  _were_  there, and you  _did_ save me. Are you insinuating that if I need you to you will not save me in the future?"

"No, of course not. I will always protect you."

"Then protect me as  _me._  Let me be true to myself, don't try to change me," she begs.

"Are you implying that you… wish to… remain with me?"

"I, Abigail Hobbs, adaptable survivor, and occasional murderess that I am, want to be myself, and be with you."

Unable to stop himself, Hannibal reaches out to Abigail, pulling her to him tightly as if to ensure she is real and not a figment of his desperate imagination.

"Wait," she says, his mouth inches from devouring her lips. "I have conditions."

He chuckles lowly, leaning in teasingly.

"Of course you do, that is, after all, part of who you are. What are your conditions?"

"I have three. One, you will never try to manipulate me into committing murder again, and will accept me as I am."

"Agreed," he breathes his nose brushing against her jaw line as he inhales the smell of her sweet shampoo.

"Two, you will not try to force me to do anything I am uncomfortable with, such as helping carry or mutilate dead bodies."

_This is seriously the most fucked up relationship,_  she can't help but think.

"Alright. What's your third condition?"

"Three, and I have to stress top priority on this one…  _Stop fucking Alana Bloom._ "

Hannibal chuckles darkly again, and murmurs something akin to his assent before burying his face in Abigail's neck.

She briefly thinks that she'll make him give a clear verbal agreement, when all rational thought leaves her and she remembers just what she's been missing during their estrangement.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I had really wanted to get this finished before season 3 premiers, but that is looking EXTREMELY unlikely (also like 1 MORE DAY!!). Hope you are still enjoying the direction we're heading, and not disappointed in me glossing over most of the events from the episodes. This story was always meant to ( _mostly_ ) fit into 'canon', though changes will definitely become more and more pronounced... Let me know what you think!


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

As he and Abigail resume their relationship right where they left off, pawing at each other whenever they have the chance, grappling for dominance, and easing each others nightmares, Hannibal feels it is time to move onto the next step with Will Graham.

He needs Will to murder someone.

The perfect opportunity presents itself when Hannibal discovers that one of his former patients is behind a series of grizzly attacks.

_Randall Tier._

Hannibal treated Randall back when the boy was just a teenager. He had an odd medical condition, and believed he was an animal trapped in the body of a man.

Caring physician that he is, Hannibal helped teach the boy how to mask his condition, and how to function in society normally until the day came when he would be able to realize his true form.

Apparently that day has come.

The first victim the FBI discovered was a truck driver, mauled to death at a truck stop. It had appeared to be an animal attack, though a premeditated one. As if the animal doing the attacking was under the influence of a trainer, or owner.

The next two victims, a young couple sharing a romantic bonfire in the cold, were also found mauled to death, however evidence was discovered to indicate that these were not animal attacks, as first believed, but attacks of a man wearing a mechanical animal suit.

It was then Hannibal realized whom they were dealing with.

He did his part, pointing Will and Jack in Randall's direction, but of course they were not able to prove he was the killer yet.

And this is where he put his plan into play…

Hannibal went to Randall, and convinced him that Will Graham had to be dealt with. He then drove him to Will's house, and insured that Randall would act.

He was not disappointed.

Watching on in satisfaction, Hannibal saw Randall launch himself through the glass window of Will's house, and then he left, knowing whatever happened next was out of his control.

Back at the house, Abigail is pacing anxiously in Hannibal's bedroom, where she's been spending every night since their reconciliation.

She knew the silence and distance she placed between them when she was still mad at Hannibal had been torturous, but she didn't realize just how strongly it would affect her.

After months of having no one but Hannibal to speak to, and then trying to avoid him at all costs when she was mad at him, she's now been desperate for interaction since they decided to try again.

Abigail knows her current dependency on him isn't healthy, and perhaps never will be, but she suspects it will get better when they finally leave this place and she'll be allowed to interact freely with others.

_In a place where no one knows me, and I can start all over…_

When she hears the door open downstairs, she almost races down to meet him, but when she reaches the top of the steps she hears noises that don't make sense.

There is a man grunting, as if straining to…  _drag something?_

Whoever it is down there, Abigail is positive it is not Hannibal.

_Is he trying to play me again?_  She wonders.

_He promised he wouldn't…_

Shaking her head uncertainly, Abigail retreats to her own room, locking the door behind her.

As loud noises, groans and chairs being knocked over, drift upstairs Abigail is positive it isn't Hannibal downstairs. He would never make so much noise.

_What do I do?_

_If I go down there I put myself at risk of having to do something I don't want to, but if I stay here I really don't have anyway to defend myself if I need to._

Still internally struggling, Abigail breathes a small sigh of relief when she hears a car pulling up.

_That has got to be Hannibal._

Tiptoeing to her door, she places her good ear to the wood and waits, listening for any sign of what is happening downstairs.

When Hannibal arrives home, he immediately knows something is off.

The first giveaway is the light in the dining room is on, and at this hour he knows Abigail will be upstairs, most likely in his bed, waiting for him.

The second is the stench of some very unfortunate aftershave.

Hannibal passes past the stairs and glances towards the second floor, hoping Abigail is tucked away safely, before proceeding into his dining room.

What he finds is a pleasant surprise.

Randall Tier is spread out, dead, on his dining table, with Will Graham standing menacingly on the other side of the room.

"I'd say this makes us even," Will says, staring Hannibal down. "I sent someone to kill you, you sent someone to kill me. Even Steven."

Hannibal just nods, suspicious of Will's apparent forgiveness.

"Well then," Will continues, "what next? I'm assuming you want me to display this?"

"What do you think should come next?" Hannibal redirects.

Will hesitates, studying the body before him, and Hannibal suspects he sees a glint of sadness in his new protégé's eyes.

"We should honor him."

"By honor him, you mean—?"

"Give him what he's always wanted," Will clarifies. "Make him the beast he always saw himself as."

Hannibal nods slowly.

"I think I'll need some guidance," Will adds. "Will you help me?"

Unable to hide it, Hannibal smirks at Will, nodding gladly.

"All you've ever had to do was ask," he tells him. "Just allow me a few moments to change, and we can be on our way."

"I'll wait here and watch our friend," Will says cheekily, pointing to Randall.

After making sure Will didn't follow him, Hannibal tries Abigail's door, but finds it locked from the inside.

"It's me, Abigail," he reassures her, and the lock immediately clicks open.

Hannibal cracks her door just enough for him to slide in before closing it again immediately.

"What's going on?" Abigail demands, standing cross-armed a few feet away from him.

She's doing her very best to look stern, and Hannibal can't help but think how adorable it makes her.

"Who is downstairs?"

"Will. He wanted to surprise me."

Before he can quite comprehend what is happening, Abigail has launched herself at him, wrapping her arms about his neck, and is peppering his face with kisses.

Hannibal leans his head back and looks at her surprised, with a questioning look.

"I—I'm just…" she tries, but doesn't finish before planting a searing kiss on his lips.

Mmm," he mumbles, very carefully extracting himself from her embrace. "As much as I would very much enjoy continuing with whatever this is, I have a guest."

"Sorry," she blushes. "It's just that when I heard someone downstairs who wasn't you, I thought… I thought—"

"That despite my promise I was leading you into another test?"

She nods.

"I made you a promise, Abigail. I will do my best to stick to it. Now, I have to go back out. I know, I apologize," he adds, seeing her face fall, "but it is for a task essential to our departure."

"Okay."

"Don't wait up for me," he insists, reaching out to cup her cheek.

"Only if you promise to wake me when you return," Abigail says, smiling mischievously.

Hannibal sighs in mock tiredness.

"You will be the death of me."

As the next week passes, Abigail grows more and more frustrated with Hannibal's absence from home, but he insists it is all necessary for their eventual escape.

He doesn't tell her much about what he's doing, just that he is working closely with Will on his "transformation" and that soon he will ask Will to leave the country with them.

_Well, with Hannibal... I'm supposed to be a "surprise."_

No matter what Hannibal claims his reasons are, Abigail knows that he is really doing it to protect her, lest Will not be willing to go and then wish to stop her escape.

In addition to Hannibal's frequent absences, Abigail's had to adjust to spending most of her evenings upstairs once more, as Will is often a dinner guest.

She always promises to stay out of sight, but sometimes she likes to sneak down the stairs and listen in to their dinner conversations.

_I wonder if all our dinner conversations will be this boring when we leave?_ She wonders, listening to Will and Hannibal's back and forth pseudo-Freud bull.

One night when Hannibal returns late, Abigail climbs onto his lap as he perches on the edge of the bed and buries her face in his neck.

She inhales deeply, wanting to wrap herself in the spicy scent of his aftershave, a smell she's come to associate with safety, but instead she gets the distinct whiff of another woman's perfume.

She leans back indignantly and shoves both her hands flat against his chest, pushing him back on the bed.

"Where were you tonight?" she demands, still sitting on his lap, both hands on her hips.

"I was at my office," he answers, "with Alana."

"What? How could you?"

"I can't just ignore her. Not after everything that has happened."

"But when I agreed to give this another chance—"

Hannibal grabs Abigail's waist and rolls, pinning her back to the bed, pushing his pelvis into hers, and lowering his face so they are mere centimeters away.

"You only said not to  _fuck_ her," he says quietly, giving Abigail goose bumps at the way the curse rolls off his tongue. "You did not say I had to sever all ties."

"So you didn't?" she asks, head clouding as he begins to nuzzle her neck.

"No," he swears, "I didn't fuck her."

Abigail shivers, causing Hannibal to chuckle darkly.

"But I am going to fuck you."

Abigail growls and twists her head to find his mouth, nipping hungrily at his lower lip.

Hannibal stands up and she groans in disappointment; it doesn't last however.

He pulls her to the very edge of the bed and flips her onto her stomach, her legs hanging over the side to support herself.

She can hear the metallic click of his belt buckle and then his zipper sliding down.

Hannibal doesn't even take the time to undress, himself or her, something that never happens. Instead he pushes her dress up and grabs at her underwear, pulling them down to her thighs.

Abigail barely has time to prepare before she feels his fingers, ensuring she's ready, and then he's inside of her.

His thrusts are fast and hard, and at just the right angle that has her gasping and arching back to meet him.

His hands are on his hips and she can feel his fingertips digging into her flesh. She knows there will be bruises, but right now all she wants is for him to hold tighter and go faster.

Hannibal cries out as he finishes, the last of his thrusts being the hardest. She can feel him finishing inside of her, and the spurting warmth is all she needed to send her into oblivion.

Abigail moans her completion, pushing back into him firmly until her legs go limp, and hang lifeless.

Hannibal carefully withdraws himself and then lies down, panting, on the bed beside her.

After several moments, just as Abigail is about to slip into blissful, satisfied, unconsciousness, he speaks.

"If that was the result of having Alana over to my office, I can't wait to find out what happens when you learn she's coming over for dinner tomorrow."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry about the wait... I have to admit the new season has put me off my 'Hannibal' mood to be honest. I'm just very disappointed with the treatment of Abigail.

*spoilers to follow* 

I mean if they were gonna kill her, which was hardly an "if" at all, why bring her back? That is the second time she's been brought back just to die again, and in my opinion is really fucking lazy writing. I'm also sick of her only being used as a tool to further Will's whiny man-pain. Abigail Hobbs had so much beautiful potential, and I am just very angry about how she was treated. /rant over but still fuming

*End Spoilers*

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this update. We're getting closer to the end. Probably only 3-4 chapters left now. Let me know what you think!

 


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

Abigail's annoyance with Hannibal over Alana's dinner visit is brief, once he explains that Will was also invited.

"You could have said that in the first place," she pouts.

He had waited until halfway through breakfast the following morning to tell her.

"I could have, but then I would have denied myself the chance of seeing you in your delightfully adorable jealous mode," he says with a playful smile.

Abigail scowls at him, and changes the subject, pressing Hannibal for information on how much longer before they get to leave.

"I told you, it won't be much longer. I think Will is almost ready."

"How will you know when he  _is_ ready?"

"I'll know," he says simply, irritating her further.

As if sensing her wish to probe him more, Hannibal excuses himself, explaining he has a full day ahead of him.

He pauses beside Abigail's dining chair to give her a kiss on the head, but she catches hold of his tie, and pulls him down for a proper kiss.

He wears an expression of mock exasperation as he straightens and tucks his tie back into his vest.

"Behave yourself today, Miss Hobbs," he insists in a playfully stern voice.

"I always do, Dr. Lecter," she responds cheekily.

As has been the case recently, Abigail's day ticks by agonizingly slow, made even worse by the fact that she knows even when Hannibal comes home tonight, she won't get to see him until bed.

_Damn dinner parties._

She's found her time slipping into a dangerous, but familiar, routine. Counting her minutes in two ways:  _with Hannibal,_ and  _waiting for Hannibal._

With all of the isolation and loneliness she's endured, Abigail can't even find it within to chastise herself for her dependency, justifying that it's only to be expected in a situation such as theirs, and that it will change when they leave.

That evening, despite Hannibal's warning to stay in his bedroom, Abigail slips down the stairs to listen to the dinner conversation.

What she hears makes her wish she hadn't.

"Freddie Lounds thinks the two of you are a paradox," Alana says conversationally. "She sees something else no one else sees."

"What's that?" Will asks.

"That neither of you is the killer she's writing about, but together, you might be," Alana answers.

"Freddie Lounds must consider you to be a bland interview subject if she's already resorted to fiction," Hannibal says, nonplussed.

Unlike how calm Hannibal sounds, Abigail feels anything but, and returns up the stairs to his bedroom.

_Freddie knows… or at least suspects… and if she suspects, she won't stop until she knows._

In the few meetings Abigail had shared with Freddie Lounds, she grew to learn that the reporter is nothing if not dedicated.

Freddie had a way of phrasing her leading questions that, several times, almost led Abigail to slipping up in her story.

_That woman is a bloodhound._

When Hannibal joins her after his guests have left, he can read her anxious expression right away.

"I am guessing you did not heed my advice, and you snuck down to join us," he sighs. "Tell me, what part of tonight's conversation do we owe for your current state?"

He removes his jacket and spreads it across the bench at the foot of the bed, beginning to und the buttons on his vest.

"Freddie knows!" Abigail exclaims. "I heard what Dr. Bloom said. Freddie knows that you and Will are working together."

Having divested himself of both his vest and tie, Hannibal unbuttons the top two clasps on his dress shirt before reaching for Abigail's hand and pulling her into his arms.

He wraps her into a snug embrace, his chin resting on top of her head.

"If Freddie Lounds truly knew anything for certain, she would have already written the story, and not be out wasting time trying to give Alana a shake down," he tries to reassure her.

"She's on the right path though! How long before she  _does_ know for certain?"

Abigail snuggles closer to Hannibal's chest, finding herself relaxing in spite of herself.

"You have nothing to fear, least of all from Freddie Lounds."

"But what if—"

"Abigail," Hannibal interrupts her, taking hold of her chin and lifting it so their eyes meet, "trust me."

She swallows audibly, but gives him a small nod.

Pleased, Hannibal sweeps Abigail off her feet and takes her to bed, driving all thoughts of Freddie Lounds from both of their minds.

The next day after he bids her a passionate farewell, Hannibal sets out to deal with their little reporter problem.

Despite what he would lead Abigail to believe, Freddie poking around for a story is indeed a big problem. The last thing he needs so close to their departure is for her to find anything to tip off the FBI.

So, instead of heading to the office, he makes his way to the shady hotel he knows Miss Lounds is staying at.

It hardly requires any effort for him to get into her room.

Hannibal makes himself comfortable and he waits for her to return.

And he waits.

_And he waits._

It's not until late that evening, when he gets a 911 text from Will, that Hannibal finally leaves, vowing to come back for his target later.

When he speaks to Will, however, he is pleased to hear he won't need to come back.

When Hannibal gets home, Abigail is in the study, curled up on the couch with a book.

"How was your day?" she asks when he walks in.

"Boring. Until about twenty minutes ago."

"What happened twenty minutes ago?"

"I would love to explain, but I don't have time. Will is on his way over and will be here any minute. Suffice it to say for now, that he is finally ready, and I believe we will be departing in the next few days.

Abigail drops her book on the couch next to her and jumps to her feet.

"Really? We're going? We're really leaving?"

Before he can respond she's a blur, speeding at him and throwing her arms around his neck.

Abigail's pulling herself up to smother his face with kisses, unable to contain her glee.

"Will's going with us then?" she asks, smiling brightly.

"I will approach the subject tonight. Until I have a confirmation, or shall I say, until we are ready to walk out the door in departure, I still wish to keep your survival secret from him."

That dampens Abigail's mood slightly, but it's not altogether surprising, and therefore not enough to entirely burst her new bubble of hope.

That night she again skulks on the stairs, listening to Hannibal and Will. Most of there discussion seems to center around their meal, and the pig they are eating.

If she had to guess, Abigail would not hesitate to wager they aren't truly eating pork.  _Who_  they ma be eating is a topic for debate, but she chooses not to think about, more comfortable not knowing.

Ignorance is not allowed, however, as two days later Hannibal reveals that Freddie Lounds was found dead and flaming in a parking garage.

There is a slight twinge of pity for the reporter, but overall Abigail is relieved. She wonders if that means Hannibal  _has_ changed her… turned her into more of a monster like him.

She doesn't dwell on it.

Instead she fantasizes about the future, trying to needle their destination out of Hannibal. He's tightlipped about it, though, keeping her guessing.

That's when he's home at all.

Ever since he's started treating Margot's brother, Mason, Hannibal has been very busy, coming home much later than usual, and closing himself off from her.

Hannibal doesn't tell Abigail about Margot's pregnancy, or about how he fixes the problem.

He's afraid that if Abigail knew he were responsible, by proxy, for the death of Will's child, she may not forgive him. So he remains silent.

The time to leave is fast approaching. He can feel the noose tightening as Jack gets closer, whether the other man realizes or not.

Then one day when Alana pays him a visit in his office, he catches the scent of gunpowder on her hands, and he can read the doubt in her eyes.

It's time to go.

Will is hesitant when Hannibal presses him, and soon enough Hannibal realizes why.

He's in his office when the attack happens.

Mason's men come for him. He manages to kill one of them, but the other two get the better of him and the next thing Hannibal knows he is waking up hanging upside down wearing a straight jacket, dangling near a pig pit.

Will is in front of him, watching him, hatred and confusion warring for control of his features.

Hannibal considers that perhaps Will was more attached to his unborn child than he had led Hannibal to believe, but those thoughts are immediately drowned out with the onslaught of Abigail's face blurring his mind.

He can feel a tingle of panic that he may never see her again, but he suppresses it, trying to remain cool and in control of the situation.

_Will doesn't have it in him to kill me._

And he's right.

Will cuts Hannibal free, leaving him to take care of Mason Verger's henchmen, and then Mason Verger himself.

Will is knocked unconscious, and as much as Hannibal would like to check on him, he has business to take care of with Mason.

He drugs Mason and takes him to Will's house, knowing his friend will return home when he regains consciousness, and then Hannibal makes sure Mason suffers.

He wants that disgusting excuse for a man to feel torture so exquisite he will understand just a fraction of what Hannibal felt when he thought he would never again see Abigail's face.

_Hmm… face… I see no reason for Mason to be needing his._

Abigail is beside herself with worry. Hannibal has been late the last week, but never  _this_ late.

_Please come home,_  she begs, sitting in his bed holding her knees and rocking back and forth.  _I can't do this without you._

When he does finally return home, when she hears him entering downstairs, Abigail doesn't pause to consider that it might not be him, or that he might not be alone. Instead she rushes down the stairs to greet him, freezing in her tracks when she sees the blood all over him.

She gasps, taking one halting step forward.

"Are— are you alright?" she asks, frightened.

"Considering that someone tried to kill me tonight, I am doing remarkably well," he says conversationally. "Don't worry, it's not my blood."

"Someone tried to… Who?"

"Mason Verger. Don't worry yourself, he's been dealt with."

Abigail buries her face in her hands.

"I'm tired of problems being 'dealt' with. I'd rather we didn't have them at all."

"And in three days time, we won't," he tries to reassure her.

"W—what does that mean?"

"It means we're leaving. The day after tomorrow, as soon as I finish what needs to be done here. In three days, we will be completely different people, with no reason to look over our shoulders in fear."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I hope you can forgive me for the long wait. After Season 3's treatment of Abigail, I kind of lost my muse and became very disenchanted with the whole show. I will see this out to the end, though. In fact we are very close. I glossed over a lot of the Verger storyline in this, because that was never the point of my story. Abigail and Hannibal are. 

Anyways, there are two chapters left, one of which being the epilogue. I won't keep you waiting long, I have been waiting for the end of this fic from the first day I started writing it, and am so very eager to hear your opinions on the ending. Thank you all for sticking with me <3 


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

As he promised Abigail, Hannibal immediately begins preparation for their departure.

First, he packs them each a bag, supplying them both with clothing for their journey, and other essentials. Then, though he hates to even consider it, he makes sure that even if they are somehow separated, they both have what they need to get by until they reunite.

In Abigail's bag he includes all the paperwork on her new identity; ID, driver's license, birth certificate, social security card, even falsified school transcripts, and a report on her "life" growing up. He also adds five thousand dollars in cash, her plane ticket, and the bankcards he had made up for her new identity that link to one of his many overseas accounts.

_If anything happens to me, she will want for nothing._

As an afterthought, he slips in the business card of the plastic surgeon he once mentioned to her, an old friend of his he knows can take care of her missing ear.

With all of that taken care of, Hannibal banishes any thoughts of what could go wrong from his mind, conjuring up images of he and Abigail taking a wine tour through the French countryside.

Hannibal places both of their bags under the decorative table by his front door, ready to grab at a moment's notice.

"What's all that?"

He turns around to find Abigail watching him interestedly.

"Our travel supplies," he tells her. "Everything we need to start over."

"You're just… leaving it there? By the front door?"

"That seems like the most reasonable place for it."

"You're not nervous I'm gonna take off when you go to your office?" she asks.

"Are you planning on leaving me?"

"Of course not," Abigail insists. "You've kept your promises… and I don't want to leave you."

He walks over to her and wraps one arm around her waist.

"I wouldn't stop you if you did," he says quietly, surprising both of them with the admission.

He's even more surprised when he realizes it's true.

"All I want," he continues, "is your happiness. It is… an odd concept for me to understand. I've never cared for anyone more than I care for myself, but when I think of you, all I want is to know you are happy and safe."

Abigail gives him a watery smile, and reaches up on tiptoes to give Hannibal a kiss.

He pulls her tighter, but she leans away reluctantly.

"Don't you have to meet Will?" she asks.

Hannibal sighs.

"If we want to leave tomorrow night."

"Then you should get going. I'll be waiting for you to get back."

Hannibal gives her one more lingering kiss, and walks out the door.

When he arrives at his office, Will is waiting for him, leaning casually against the front door.

"How are you feeling today, Will?" Hannibal asks, pulling out his keys to unlock the door.

"Excited. Nauseous. Nervous. Terrified. Exhilarated."

"All to be expected, I assure you. Come in," Hannibal gestures to the front door, "let's get started."

Hannibal crouches in front of his fireplace, coaxing a spark into a roar before he and Will set to work.

They comb through his records, file by file, burning everything.

Hannibal wants to ensure the safety of his clients and give them the gift of anonymity before he leaves. He may be a murderer, and a bastard, but no one can say he didn't take his job seriously.

Even if they do say he abused his privileges and practiced unorthodox treatment methods.

They talk quietly, musing about their departure, and discussing Hannibal's memory palace.

"If I'm ever apprehended, my memory palace will serve as more than a mnemonic system. I will live there," Hannibal says.

"Could you be happy there?" Will questions.

"All the palace chambers are not lovely, light and bright."

As Will leans past him to toss more papers into the flames, Hannibal catches a familiar scent… one that takes him a moment to place.

When he does place it, pulling to the forefront of his mind an image of the supposedly dead Freddie Lounds, anger shoots through him.

_How deceptive you've grown Mr. Graham._

As much as Hannibal would like to strike Will down immediately for his deceit, thoughts of Abigail's displeasure stills his hands.

Instead, he gives Will a chance; a chance to still make the right decision.

"We could disappear now," Hannibal suggests suddenly. "Tonight. Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana and never see her or Jack again. Almost polite."

Will hesitates, clearly thinking over his next words carefully.

"I need him, Jack, to know."

It is then Hannibal realizes there is no hope for Will, and that he is just another threat to the life Hannibal wishes to build with Abigail.

He gives a stiff nod and returns to feeding papers into the fire.

When they finish and Hannibal sends Will off with an invitation to Jack for tomorrow evening, Hannibal returns home with a knot in his stomach.

He doesn't know how to tell Abigail the news. Part of him worries that despite her declarations of devotion and want, she'll leave him if she knows Will is not coming.

He considers whisking her away from it all tonight, avoiding the fallout to come, but deep down he knows that if he does Will and Jack will never stop searching for him.

He doesn't want that kind of life for her.

When Abigail greets him at the door wearing nothing but one of his white aprons, he holds his tongue and lets himself be swept away in her.

"I was trying to prepare a sweet treat for you, but I'm afraid it turned out much _messier_ than I was expecting," she tells him slyly.

"Oh?" he inquires. "Show me."

Abigail takes his hand and leads him to the kitchen.

He finds his eyes drawn to her bare backside as she skips ahead of him, the apron strings bouncing teasingly, begging to be untied.

The kitchen is indeed in disarray when they enter.

"What were you trying to make?"

She pulls him over to the stove where she has a pot of melted chocolate simmering.

"Chocolate covered strawberries," she says, dipping a finger into the pot, "but I can't seem to get the consistency just right."

Hannibal's long fingers snake around her wrist and he pulls her hand to his lips, popping the chocolate covered digit into his mouth and sucking gently.

"That's quite good," he tells her after leisurely sliding her finger from his mouth.

"Maybe I need another taste," Abigail suggests.

Hannibal smirks and moves to dip his own finger in the pot, but pauses to give her a pointed look.

"Do you know just how hard it is to get chocolate out of white?" he asks.

She smiles.

"Difficult, is it?"

"Oh, yes," he insists. "Perhaps we should be on the safe side."

Arms slipping around her waist, Hannibal unties the apron strings and slips it up and over her head, discarding it onto the kitchen floor.

"Much better," he says, eyes raking over her. "Now it's your turn."

He reaches into the pot and scoops a big glob of chocolate onto his forefinger, but as he reaches for Abigail's mouth he _accidentally_ drips it on her.

"Oh, dear," he feigns surprise. "Fortunately that is much easier to clean up."

Hannibal dips his head and laps at drizzle of chocolate in the valley between her breasts.

"Hmmm… I'll be right back."

He withdraws so quickly Abigail is too stunned to reply.

When Hannibal returns he has a handful of paintbrushes and immediately picks Abigail up and places her on the counter.

"This hardly seems fair," she says, pulling him nearer to her by his tie. "After all, I'm sure chocolate is just as difficult to get out of silk as it is to get out of white."

Obliging her, he strips himself of his own clothing and then picks up a brush. Dipping it into the pot of chocolate he begins to paint Abigail's skin with intricate patterns of flowers.

She bites her lip and lets her head slip back, focusing on the tingle the brush leaves trailing behind it.

When she feels his hand still, Abigail looks down to see his handiwork.

"You've turned me into a work of art," she murmurs.

"You already were."

Somehow they both end up on the kitchen floor, entwined in one another, covered in chocolate.

Abigail takes her turn painting on Hannibal, forgoing the intricacy he showed and instead painting one word across his chest; MINE.

His chest rumbles with laughter when he sees her handiwork, and they both take turns, tracing their tongues over the patterns their brushes already traveled.

Later, after a much needed shower, once they are curled around one another in bed, Hannibal realizes he didn't tell her about Will… or about the storm that is coming for them tomorrow.

Studying her peaceful, sleeping face, he thinks, _she'll forgive me._

_She always does._

The next day Hannibal must sense Abigail's nervousness. Instead of a large breakfast he instead brings her toast and a glass of juice.

_Or perhaps he's still cleaning up the chocolate,_ she thinks with a small smile.

They spend much of the day in silence and it's clear the impending escape is weighing heavily on both of them.

Without consciously deciding to, they end up in Hannibal's study, curled up together on the couch.

The only time they speak is to go over the plan.

"Remember where the car is," Hannibal reminds her for the tenth time. "If we get separated I will meet you there, but if I'm not there in fifteen minutes go on without me."

"I know," she sighs, "but that won't happen."

The day seems to both drag on, and yet be over in no time.

As dusk begins to settle, Abigail's stomach is in knots.

She stands on the far side of the kitchen watching as Hannibal prepares for his final dinner party.

When the phone rings, Abigail almost jumps out of her skin.

"Hello?" Hannibal answers.

It's only a moment before he hangs up again.

"Who was it?" she asks.

"Will," he says quietly. "Things have changed. I need you to hide in the study."

"What? But—"

"Abigail, now!" he commands.

She swallows but does as he says with panic swirling inside her as she retreats.

_What's changed?_

She tries to reassure herself that if things were really that bad Hannibal would get them out of there.

Waiting impatiently, Abigail isn't sure how long it is before she hears the front door creak open, the rain outside becoming momentarily louder.

Footsteps pad softly down the hall, wet shoes squeaking slightly on the wooden floor.

Unable to resist, Abigail peeks out of the study and sees Jack Crawford entering the kitchen.

When he turns in the doorway she jumps back out of sight, straining her ears to here the voices coming from the kitchen.

When the fight starts she doesn't have to strain any longer. She can hear everything. Every hit, every stumble… glass shattering, dishes cracking… groaning and cries of pain.

She bites into her bottom lip painfully and covers her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs of fear threatening to rise up along side her silent tears.

_We're leaving… we're leaving… Hannibal and I are leaving together._

Screwing her eyes shut she recalls how much he's changed _for her._ He's stuck to her conditions as he promised, and if Hannibal can do that, he can do anything.

Including get them out of here.

_Crash._

_Crash._

_Crash._

It sounds as if someone is trying to break a door down.

Abigail feels the walls pressing in on her, imaging the FBI storming the front door and descending on them.

Images of dark musty cells swim behind her clenched eyelids.

"Hannibal!"

_Alana!_

The crashing sound stops.

"Where's Jack?" Alana is yelling.

Abigail can't stop; she has to see, so she once more peers around the doorframe.

Alana is there in the hall, a gun drawn and aimed at Hannibal.

_So much blood,_ Abigail shudders, seeing Hannibal's white shirt covered and she prays it isn't his.

"In the pantry," Hannibal whispers mockingly. "I was hoping you and I wouldn't have to say goodbye."

He takes a step towards her.

"Stop! I was so blind."

Alana sounds so broken, Abigail almost feels sorry for her.

"In your defense, I worked very hard to blind you," Hannibal offers. "You can stay blind. Walk away and I will make no plans to call on you… but if you stay I will kill you."

He takes another step towards her as her gun wavers.

"Be blind, Alana. Don't be brave."

Alana grits her teeth and pulls the trigger, Abigail is ready to scream when she hears the empty _click_ the gun makes.

_Click. Click. Click._

"I took your bullets," Hannibal tells her.

Alana turns and runs up the stairs, Hannibal following behind her almost leisurely.

Abigail walks out of the study in a daze, towards the kitchen.

Once so pristine and perfect, it is now in complete disarray. Glass and splintered wood is everywhere.

She walks into the room and looks at the place where just twenty-four hours ago they made love. Now the floor is covered in blood rather than chocolate.

She takes another step and kicks something. Bending down to pick it up she realizes it's a pair of handcuffs.

_Jacks._

Shaking her head she studies the silver cuffs twisting them over and over in her hands.

_Foolish man,_ she thinks. _Did you really think it could end so easily?_

Upstairs a gun fires rapidly.

"I found more bullets!" Alana yells.

"Abigail?"

"Hannibal?" she exhales his name, soft as a prayer.

He's at the bottom of the staircase and she rushes to meet him.

Abigail reaches her left hand up to cup his cheek.

"Are you alright?" she asks worriedly.

"I'm fine," he reassures her, catching her raised hand and kissing her fingers.

"Let's get out of here," Abigail begs. "Grab our bags and _go!_ "

"We can't. Not yet. Alana must be dealt with."

"Why?"

"If we leave her be she'll set the alarm off about my departure much sooner than would be ideal for us to leave in peace."

Abigail looks around at their shattered surroundings and wonders how this still constitutes as peace.

"How—how did this happen?" she asks, voice cracking.

"Will," is all Hannibal says, but it's all he needs to say.

She understands instantly, almost as if the suspicion had always been there, that Will was not truly on Hannibal's side.

"I need you to do something, Abigail."

"What?"

"I need you to go upstairs and sneak into the side entrance of the room Alana is hiding in."

"Why?" she asks, confused.

"She won't be expecting to see you," he explains. "Her guard will be down and you can do what needs to be done."

"What needs to be done?" she repeats.

"You must kill her."

Abigail takes a step back, shaking her head.

"You promised," she murmurs.

Her very first condition: _You will never try to manipulate me into trying to commit murder again, and will accept me as I am._

"You'll never change, will you?" she asks, her voice so quiet she's really speaking more to herself than to Hannibal.

"Abigail you _must_ do this! If we are to escape together, you must!" he tries to command.

She considers it, recalling the burning hatred for Alana she felt when she found her in Hannibal's bed. She tries to remind herself it wasn't Alana's fault… it was all Hannibal's doing.

Her throat burns as she swallows back her emotions, and Abigail stares down at the ground, nodding jerkily.

She blinks back tears and looks up to meet Hannibal's gaze with a steely determination.

"I have to do this," she says, and she can see the relief on his face.

Abigail moves quickly wrapping an arm around Hannibal and raising herself on tiptoes to give him a fierce kiss, laced with so many things that she can't say.

She leans away slightly, her lips just barely ghosting over his.

"I love you, Hannibal," she tells him, her heart breaking, and in one swift movement she uses Jack's handcuffs to cuff Hannibal's left hand to the bannister behind him.

Abigail retreats out his reach, her heart shattering even more as she sees the resignation in his eyes.

"Abigail…" he whispers.

"I warned you," she chokes out, "and you _promised_ me. I won't let anyone decide who I am, Hannibal. Not even you. I am my own person."

Hastily wiping tears away with the back of her hand, Abigail backs away further, grabbing the bag he prepared for her out from under the table next to the front door.

"Even if you leave me here," Hannibal tells her, "you won't be free. No matter what, Abigail, a part of you will always belong to me."

"Goodbye, Hannibal," she says, turning to walk away, refusing to let him know he is right.

Abigail knows she will never truly be free of him. She knows the ache in her chest will never fade, and she knows that no matter how much she will try to deny it, Hannibal has left his mark.

He's branded her soul.

Stepping out into the fresh air for the first time in months Abigail sucks in a deep breath as she closes the front door behind her.

Another deep breath, not belonging to her, startles her and she finds herself face to face with Will.

"Abigail?" he whispers, stunned.

She wants to be angry with Will for ruining their escape, but she can't bring herself to it, not with Hannibal's betrayal so fresh in her mind.

Abigail reaches out and squeezes Will's hand, and he starts, as if amazed she's not a hallucination.

"He's in there," Abigail tells Will, nodding over her shoulder.

"How—? What—?"

"I have to go," she says, pulling away. "Please don't come looking for me."

Abigail gives a stunned Will a kiss on the cheek and steps out into the downpour, letting the rain wash everything away.

She walks to the unassuming getaway car Hannibal purchased and finds the hide-a-key stashed in the tire well just as he promised.

_As he promised._

Abigail climbs in the car and opens her bag, digging through it to find all that he provided her with.

_Clothing, money, plane ticket, bankcards, my new identity…_

She opens the folder containing everything about her new identity and the first things she finds on top of the pile of papers are three pictures.

Hannibal in his grey and red plaid suit, standing next to Abigail in her low cut red dress, her hair swept back in a silver comb. In the first they're smiling, in the second they are staring deeply into each other's eyes, and in the third they are wrapped in a lover's embrace.

A single tear slips down her cheek, joining the rain on her face.

She glances over her new life story and smiles sadly, remembering a conversation she had with Abel Gideon in Hannibal's basement and what he told her.

_Fly away,_ he told her. _As soon as that cage door opens, fly away._

She can't help but think how fitting his words are as she starts the car and slips it into drive.

Once on the road Abigail allows herself one final glance back at the house she spent so much time confined in. It's front is bathed in red and blue light from the police cars and ambulance out front.

"Goodbye, Hannibal," she whispers once more to her rearview mirror, knowing in her soul that it isn't goodbye forever.

_Fly away_ , she thinks taking a deep breath. _Fly away._


	27. Epilogue

Hannibal and Will never revealed her secret. They never told anyone that she is still alive, giving her a new life free from the fear of being chased.

After her visit to Hannibal's plastic surgeon friend, where her missing ear was replaced with a believable prosthetic and the scar on her neck all but removed, she even managed to lose the fear of being recognized.

Her new identity was so complete and so thorough that no one ever questioned her about it. Her documents were so accurate that even customs officials didn't bat an eye when she came to or from the country.

A little research even proved that her new social security number is real.

With all of this, and the addition of lightening her hair to a nice shade of auburn, she felt like a truly different person; someone not afraid to live her life on her own terms.

Someone willing to risk everything and chase her dream job after spending four years as a double major in psychology and criminology.

Despite everything though, she never expected it all to lead her right back here.

Right back under the noses of those most likely to recognize her for whom she truly is.

And yet… no one has noticed.

It's been months and months, working in close quarters with people who knew her before, but no one has discovered her secret.

_So here I am_ , she thinks walking down the long stone corridor, heart pounding painfully loud in her chest.

All the planning in the world doesn't prepare her for the pain, joy, and _need_ that hits her when she looks through the glass at the end of the hall.

_At him…_

"Hello, Dr. Lecter," she says, slightly breathless as he turns to face her, a welcoming grin spreading brightly across his still perfect face.

"Hello, Clarice."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well... here we are. After almost two years I finally wrote those two words I've been waiting for. I just want to thank all of you who have reviewed, or messaged me, or just stuck with me despite my terrible habit of not sticking to a reliable posting schedule. I really hope it's everything you hoped for. Please, please, please let me know what you think! And again, thank you so much for sticking with me, you are all amazing!


End file.
